


The Finer Points of Conquest

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Series: Back Against a Wall [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alone in Winterfell, Conquest, Dancing around the maypole, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Lady of Winterfell Sansa Stark, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Playful Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Roleplay, The Past, The one that almost got away, loss of family, love making, possible trigger at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23859625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: SanSan, AU: The Seven Kingdoms have fallen apart. Sandor rides north to claim a girl he fell in love with years before, the Lady of Winterfell Sansa Stark.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Back Against a Wall [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1372204
Comments: 195
Kudos: 276





	1. Remembering that Face

**Author's Note:**

> Warning that the first chapter is reminiscent of those times we, as young women, might have flirted with an older man. I've tried to be aware of our modern sensibilities while trying to keep in mind period sensibilities of age difference.
> 
> In the other chapters she's of an acceptable age :-)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one!

#  Chapter 1: Remembering that Face

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat at the minor lords’ table, Sandor Clegane took care to check if anyone was observing him. He used his peripheral vision to great effect, having honed it through a life built on combat experience. It was rare he missed a detail, seldom he misinterpreted the intentions of another. For now, at least, he could breathe a sigh of relief for the direction of his gaze, and the subject of it, seemed to go unnoticed by those in attendance. 

That put him at ease. 

Four weeks earlier, Sandor led Lord Tywin’s escort from King’s Landing all the way to Winterfell, deep in the North. They had only just arrived last night, and all the men were tired and hungry. Eager to offload the wagons and get some shut eye, Sandor had certainly counted himself among the tired ones. This journey into unknown territory had been long, but full of new sights and smells for the large, western born bodyguard to the Hand of the King. The Hound certainly didn’t hate the North like he did other places. The untouched forest and bounty of animals was the complete opposite of the urban squalor he was used to in the South. 

It was simple and quiet here, that also put him at ease.

After that experience it wasn’t difficult to understand why Northmen were generally so weary of foreigners. It seemed they lived in almost total isolation. Sure, they had passed a merchant, farmer, or some such craftsman on the King’s road to Winterfell, but not many. The caravan of horses, men, and supplies was sure to draw attention anywhere, but there seemed to be little interest in that from the locals.

Sandor was used to being the unwanted center of attention, gawked at by just about any man, woman, or child who set eyes upon him for the first time. It was always an uncomfortable moment that promoted an aggressive response. Here it was different, though. People did look at him, but there was a different feeling about it. There was no disgust or fear in their eyes, Sandor knew those emotions well. Instead they were interested, curious about him in a way that spoke of revery for pain. 

It was easy to forget that warriors were revered here, given honor and respect for their sacrifices in combat. It wasn’t your title or status as a knight that set you apart, but how much you had bled on the battlefield. These lands understood pain and sorrow. The harshness under which they constantly existed made them a different breed than southerners, even westerners. Sandor certainly knew what a harsh life was, he had not had the luck to be able to shy away from it. That was something he certainly shared with the people here, a rugged determination to live and thrive, even when your environment would rather crush the life out of you.

Sandor also couldn’t deny that he kind of looked like a northman too. Unlike the other soldiers in Lord Tywin’s escort, Sandor tended to wear his hair long, nearly past his shoulders. His beard had grown out even more than it would have in the South, which gave his face added protection against the cold northern nights and the bitter wind. The ruggedness of his appearance certainly made him fit in more than stand out, which was different from any other part of Westeros he had traveled. 

The North was exotic in a way that Dorne and even Essos were not. Its gravity had both drawn him in and caught him off guard all at the same time, which was an unusual feat for a well traveled, battle hardened man like him. Even now, as he sipped his wine and watched the festivities hailing the arrival of spring unfold, he could never imagine this kind of joy for the changing of the seasons in King’s Landing. 

Nor could he imagine a girl so beautiful, as the redhead he was watching dance around the maypole. 

She was far too young for him, no more than thirteen or fourteen. A girl in the midst of becoming a woman had never drawn his eye, or his curiosity before. Perhaps it was her smile, so carefree and natural as she teased her friends and joined in the joy of the bounty spring would bring. It could have been her eyes, the color of glacial sea ice that had never been broken by man or beast. Then again her hair was also a sight to behold, such a dark color of red and so rare, Sandor was sure he’d never seen anything like it. 

The Hound was not a man given to fantasizing about women, or wasting his time taking more than two looks at them. He’d spent his entire life in a transactional relationship with the opposite sex, which meant he didn’t ponder their greater mysteries nor think about what it might be like to hold and caress one. No, Sandor Clegane was a man hardened by a cruel world that had taken from him more than it gave. It had desensitized him to the emotions of others, cut him off from sharing any part of himself with anyone. 

It was foolish of him to think he could share something with this northerner, to play through different scenarios of courtship as he was now. Sandor had never considered himself drawn to such girls, and her youth made him question if he still had all his wits. However, there was something about her, a confidence and a carefreeness that went beyond age--something that would develop as she became a woman. The Hound couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but he knew when she grew up, she would turn more than just heads. 

Part of him felt an urge to talk to her, though it seemed ridiculous. What would he say? How would he start a conversation? He had never, in his life, thought about such things, worried about what to say or how to act around a woman, but he was now -- and it terrified him. Then again, as her eyes fell upon his, and she held them for a couple seconds, Sandor couldn’t help but wonder if she was flirting with him. 

He hadn’t seen her pause so long to look at another man this whole afternoon.

“Ohh that one’s not for you, Dog,” came the taunting voice of Tyrion Lannister from behind him. Never one to miss frivolties, he had come northward with his father. The coming of spring had brought with it an invitation from Lord Stark, and for some reason Sandor’s liege lord had agreed--though these festivities were often beneath him.

The Hound shifted so he could look the Imp over, a sense of panic rising in his chest. There was no use in denying his infatuation with the girl, still dancing around the maypole with her friends. He'd been staring at her unabashedly the whole afternoon, far too long for it to be healthy. 

Merely sending Tyrion a side eye, Sandor sat upright in his seat ensuring that he would have to shift his gaze from the girl completely. Much to his dismay, however, the runt of the Lannister litter decided to make himself comfortable in the empty seat next to him. 

Settling in with a large cup of wine, the Imp sat down beside him. “The redhead you’ve been eyeing for an ungodly amount of time is the daughter of the high lord here, the Lady Sansa Stark.”

Doing his best not to show any signs of shock or surprise, Sandor kept a neutral expression on his face, one he had perfected over his many years in court. 

Unfortunately his opponent was most clever. Tyrion, sensing he’d hit some kind of a sore spot with the Hound, grinned and took a sip of his wine. “She’s the main reason we’re here you know,” the little man whispered to Sandor. “We must find my glorious nephew a wife.”

Sandor couldn’t help but share a bit of a grin with the smallest of the Lannister clan. Joffrey Baratheon was a young, unpopular king--and both men had been around long enough to know what happened to unpopular kings on the Iron Throne. The cunt of a boy was so mixed up in spending money and whining about all the things it didn’t buy him to really run the country. That job seemed to fall to his grandfather, Lord Tywin.

“Then why isn’t the boy here?” Sandor asked, wondering what Tyrion knew. It wasn’t uncommon for the two of them to share information when it suited. While Sandor wouldn’t go so far as to say he trusted Tyrion Lannister, he did find him the most agreeable member of the Lannister family.

In his usual condescending tone, the Imp replied, “Well you know, his Grace has so many important things to complain about that I dare say he was indisposed to leave his throne for the ages that it took for us to even get here.”

Clinking glasses, Sandor and Tyrion both drank to that sentiment. The boy was too lazy and too much in love with his crown to muck around with the northerners, even if it was to find him a bride. The very thought of having to put him with his moaning and complaining was enough to get Sandor’s blood boiling. The thought that she might be brought to King’s Landing, where Sandor would have to watch over her everyday, rage.

Then, perhaps in some drunken show of friendship, the younger Lannister leaned in even closer, “Also, she’s not really for Joffrey.” There was an awkward pause as the men’s eyes met. 

It was as if they were about to share something treasonous, something that could only be spoken of in whispers. The Imp continued, “Sure, my Lord Father would love to marry his grandson off to a girl like Lady Stark just for the lands and the alliance, but there’s something more at play.” 

Sandor waited patiently for Tyrion to continue, showing he could be absolutely trusted, “By the time she’s old enough and married off, I would almost bet my father would somehow come into power on the Iron Throne. King’s of Joffrey’s repute don’t last long, and if I were betting gold I would place it all on the fact that my father would sire a child with her, not Joffrey.” 

It wasn’t unusual for young women to be married off to lords who could be the age of their grandfathers. As long as the marriage came with power and influence, so in many ways what Tyrion had said wasn’t completely shocking to Sandor. Surely there would be nobody in the Seven Kingdoms who would contest that Lord Tywin was well accomplished in both statesmanship and war. 

It was the other part of Tyrion’s statement that bordered on shocking. The very thought of the grandfather of the king keeping up appearances until it suited, then allowing him to be chucked out of the way when the time was right seemed unusually brutal, even for a Lannister. Then again, as both he and the Imp shifted their eyes to Lord Tywin, it was clear the older man liked what he saw of the young Lady Stark.

Sandor swallowed his anger, as he often did.

He turned back to Tyrion and snorted, “What do dogs know of the squabbles of lords, or the fates of high born women?” He was trying to downplay his disgust with the whole idea of what Tyrion had said. Normally he would not have cared, but this girl had struck a chord with him, awakened a kind of jealousy he had not felt before. 

“We have some time to enjoy this Baratheon peace,” Tyrion said, sipping the last few drops from his cup, “But if you were wise, Dog, you would take care to keep your little plot of land and your vassals close. Who’s to say something won’t happen sooner, rather than later? I’d say you need to be sure who you want to fight for.”

Snorting at that comment, Sandor’s mind almost instantly began to consider what was better. Fighting for himself, or someone else? The answer was obvious in theory, but much more difficult in practice. “People have said a lot of things about me, but wise certainly isn’t one of them.” 

The Imp grinned in that way he normally did when he was satisfied with the amount of chaos that had been introduced into a conversation, “And on that lovely note, I think I’ll go sample so of that famous northern female hospitality.” 

It was with a pat on the back and a sheepish grin that Sandor was left to his own devices. One thing was for sure, he didn’t want to go back to watching Lady Stark. If anything, he needed to push the beautiful young maiden from his mind before she overtook all his good sense. 

Standing abruptly, the Hound decided it was best to make his way through the castle grounds and find a quiet spot to relieve himself. He made his way through the courtyard, around some walls and through a bit of mud and dirt. 

Even his little walk was not enough to push her from his mind. It suddenly dawned on him, while he searched for a suitable patch of grass with a tree nearby, that he was captivated by what she would become. It was uncommon for a high lord’s daughter to be beautiful in the way that she was. The girl wore no makeup yet had the rosy cheeks and peach colored lips all women in the capital dreamed of. She was comfortable in her own skin. It could have been her smile, or just the way that all those around her seemed to genuinely like her. 

The complete opposite of Joffrey and his grandfather. For that matter, the complete opposite of him too.

_ She certainly doesn’t deserve to be promised to a cunt and then married to an even older cunt,  _ Sandor thought to himself as he undid his belt and began to unbutton his trousers. 

Not being one to ponder such things, the Hound couldn’t shake the jealousy and rage he felt about what was to happen to her. The fates of high born women were often sealed long before they reached womanhood, and certainly not made for their own comfort, but for those of the men who ran Westeros. But she seemed to be cared for, with doting parents who had not promised her to anybody until quite late in comparison to southern standards. 

Reaching into his trousers, Sandor took his cock in hand and aimed for the tree he was standing near. He tried to imagine his anger draining from his body much like the wine was now, but it didn’t work--he was powerless to do anything more than stand there, piss, and be angry about it.

“Enjoy those smiles, girl, they’ll be the last you ever really have,” he found himself saying out loud, as if that was the only advice he was capable of giving.

“Excuse me?” Came a tentative voice from behind him. 

Giving his cock a quick shake, and stuffing it back in his pants, Sandor spun around. The first thing that struck him as odd was how she could have gotten there so quickly, unless she had followed him the moment he had left the table. The second thing that stood out to him was how flushed her cheeks were when she realized what he had been doing there.

There were not many times in Sandor’s adult life where he had not known what to do, but coming face-to-face with Sansa Stark, alone and out of view of anybody who might come that way, certainly qualified as one.

Taking it upon herself to break the awkward silence, she spoke but only succeeded in blushing all the more. “Excuse me, my Lord. I was passing by and thought you were speaking to me.”

_ No, you don’t just pass by this place. It’s out of view, there’s nothing past it. Why would she follow me? _

Sandor didn’t have much time to ponder more than that, it was his turn to talk and he needed to make sure something stupid didn’t come out. “No, just the ramblings of a man with too much to drink.” The Hound deepened his voice when he said it, hoping that it would scare her enough to leave--being along with her was like having all the air sucked out of a room. It left him light headed and barely able to breath.

Instead, she smiled as if she understood and looked him in the eye, “Yes, well the coming of spring is something to be celebrated in all manners.”

He was reading into her words now, there was no way she had just said that to him with the meaning he had gleaned from it. But before he could say something, Sansa continued, “You are the knight that led Lord Tywin’s detail. Sir?”

“No Sir, just Sandor. Sandor Clegane,” he was only just breathing, not sure what she wanted and how to respond to it. 

She seemed surprised by his admission, but looked him over all the same, not giving him the impression it was her first time taking a good long look at him. “If I may say, I believe Lord Tywin must have chosen you for your braveness. I’ve never seen a fighter as capable as you, my Lord.”

“Or as ugly,” the words just stumbled out of his mouth, bitter and nasty as they usually did when someone commented on his appearance. It was more out of habit than choice.

The young Lady Stark shook her head and took a few steps closer to him. Sandor didn’t step away, he couldn’t or he would have backed up into the tree behind him. Instead he stood still, as if to move slightly would be to scare her away. Pushing the hair away from his face, and bringing her finger tips to his burns, she spoke in a whisper, “Any man who can survive that, is a brave man--one to be celebrated.”

“I didn’t get it in battle, girl. I was a child, the victim of an older, vengeful brother,” Sandor whispered as well but the anger was gone from his words. The Lady Stark had snuffed out that flame with her touch, erased all of his anger with a gaze. 

“Then all the more,” she began rolling back on her feet. “In the North we believe that such things in life put you on a path. The path to greatness has many obstacles and to fight as you have, to survive as you have, is a badge of honor.”

“It doesn't feel very great,” he snorted, still so close to her he could smell her perfume. “What do they say about pretty girls then?” 

“Well,” she began, not intimidated by his abruptness, merely coy due to his compliment. “Some battles we fight within, but I have yet to have a moment that defines me. There is nothing that has put me on a path to anything--though I hope it will come.”

Sandor turned his head to the side a bit, “Well you’d better pray to whatever gods you have here, not to end up like me.”

Before she could speak, someone called to her, “Sansa, where are you?”

“Coming!” She called back, giving him a quick glance. “Yours is a face to remember, Sandor Clegane. Perhaps we’ll see each other again some day.”

In the years since that fateful day, Sandor had thought about Sansa Stark often. The softness of her touch was something he replayed in his mind, her blue eyes piercing though him as she gave his capable body a good look. 

He had been relieved that her arranged marriage to Joffrey had not come to pass, though that had meant that somebody had beat lord Tywin to the punch. The peace that had been enjoyed in the Seven Kingdoms had fallen apart before its time, and with it Sandor’s loyalty to the Lannisters. He had taken up arms to defend his lands and to gain new ones. He had chosen himself above another for the first time in his life, and it felt good. 

Now, all the memories of that beautiful spring day some five years ago, flooded Sandor’s mind. Standing in the open field in front of the great Winterfell castle, Sandor realized how so little had changed here. The grass was still green, filling the air with the smell of fresh foliage and earth. The fog still hung heavy and thick around the castle and countryside, chilling any normal man to the bone. 

It made Sandor wonder if she still remembered him as he remembered her, fondly and as strangely honest. Even as his army readied itself for a long siege, and the death that came with it, Sandor searched his mind for every memory he had of Lady Stark. She was a woman grown now, the loss of her father in the war, the deaths of so many family members had surely defined her in the way that had spoken about--but not in a way she would have wanted.

“Sir, everything is in place. We await your orders,” came the voice of his lieutenant. 

Sandor didn’t look back at him, his eyes were fixed on the castle, where he knew her to be. “We attack at dawn. For all that we’ve prepared, surely they have as well. Any man who surrenders we take prisoner, we want to keep these lands not ravage them.”

“And what of the Lady of Winterfell?” His lieutenant asked.

At the mere mention of her Sandor turned, a sneer on his face. “That’s up to me. I need her alive and unharmed. Any man who even looks at her wrong, I’ll rip him limb from limb. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” said his man.

As he heard his lieutenant's footsteps trail off, Sandor went back to pondering what it would be like to meet her again--remembering her face in his mind’s eye. She would be older now, more womanly, he hoped.  _ What will she think of me?  _ Sandor knew better than to fantasize that she would welcome him with open arms, but he did hope she would be receptive to him--accept that she was too valuable to be left for another. 

He breathed in deeply, knowing that tomorrow would change both of their lives, in ways neither one could have imagined all those years ago, as he had watched her dance around the maypole.


	2. There Is No Sweet Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa give into the inevitable, unsure of what the future will hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter we'll get into some more sexually tense moments. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

#  There Is No Sweet Surrender

Standing on the ramparts of Winterfell castle, high above the chaos of men, steel, and horses below, Sansa Stark felt the knot in her stomach tighten. Grey and yellow collided on the open field in front of her family home, rippling to and fro with every minor victory or defeat. They were losing, any fool could see it, and Sansa was acutely aware of the consequences.  _ It’s my burden to bear, my failure that has led to our end. It’s because of me. _

The wind whipped her auburn locks around her head vigorously, and she was of the mind to cut them then and there, just to give herself some peace. Sansa’s hair had always defined her, a mark of her beauty,  _ The reason for this horrible war.  _

Word of her betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon had sent ripples through Westeros. An unpopular king, the uproar of the other high lords had led to a suppression, which had led to rebellion, then total chaos. The building blocks of their culture had fallen quickly, the peace in which she had grown up shattered in a matter of months.  _ Greed, honor, narcissism have killed everything we held dear.  _

Tears stung her windburned cheeks, which had turned as rosy as one would expect from a young maiden. In moments like these, she felt as young and inexperienced as she was, and it made her cry all the more. Sansa didn’t dare turn to Sir Rodrik, her loyal Master at Arms, preferring to suffer alone. He was also watching the battle unfold, and she could only imagine that he felt as bad as she did--perhaps even worse.  _ At the very least I could argue these tears come from the wind,  _ she thought, the screams of men punctuating what would have otherwise been a quiet early winter morning. 

Three years of war, and suffering, had taught Sansa that men fought over things of no consequence. The very thought of men dying for her hand, and people suffering so her womb could be populated with the next king of the Seven Kingdoms made her sick. It made her want to rip out her belly, to win this war by taking herself out of it.  _ But I’m a coward, I tried last night but my hand trembled too much.  _

Sansa cursed her father and brother for taking the whole of their armies south to wage war. It was for her protection, they had said, to show the other great houses that they could not simply take her from the North. In so doing, taking all the able bodied men to war, they had left her vulnerable to any lord smart enough to outflank them.  _ It left my father dead, and Robb’s fate is still unclear. _

The banner of three black dogs on a yellow background moved closer and closer to the castle. Sansa knew who their liege lord was.  _ How could I forget?  _

Sandor Clegane was certainly a man to leave an impression. She remembered his deep grey eyes, his long dark hair, and his ill temper. Those things had not dissuaded her from approaching him on that warm spring day. If truth be told, she had been curious about him, intrigued by his appealing size and obvious strength.  _ I was testing to see if he was a man or a god,  _ she snorted now at that idea, feeling all the silly girl she had been five years ago. 

_ He would have made a good northman,  _ she realized bitterly--the irony of him taking the North not lost on her. When her father had told her she was promised to Joffrey Baratheon, Sansa had locked herself in her room and cried for days. Even at that age she had not wanted some soft handed southern boy, who knew only of silks and gold. She had wanted a rugged man, one who could fend for himself and their family. Of all the lords of Westeros, Sandor Clegane was certainly the most physically capable, preferring to be in the vanguard of his army than to watch the fighting from afar.

_ Perhaps I’ve gotten my wish,  _ she thought begrudgingly. Clegane had crossed her mind many times over the years. Had he married? Was he forever a soldier? Did he think of her too? It had been silly to think they might meet again, but at the time she had genuinely hoped so. They had been the teenaged desires of a girl who did not know her place in the world, who had never seen a foreign man of such strength and stature.

True, in those days Sandor would have been considered too low born for her parents to have blessed any union, muchless consent to courtship.  _ But neither one of you is here now to bless it. And certainly the rules we all abided by don’t apply anymore anyway, _ she lamented.

Suddenly her eye was drawn to where the fighting was the thickest. Even from as high up as she was, it was impossible not to pick out the Hound. He was at least a head taller than everybody, causing some men to flee in favor of meeting his sword. Clegane cut a clear line through the mass of men with his sword as easily as if he were cutting tall grass with a sickle. 

He was a beast, his prowess in battle inhuman--and it scared her. Sansa could feel the fondness she had had for the man drain her body, replaced by a fear she was not accustomed to.

Her mouth was dry, her body trembled, but Sansa fought to maintain an upright posture. She would not show weakness. Not to Sir Roderik, not to her people, and not certainly not to Sandor Clegane. 

Looking to Sir Rodrik, Sansa knew she would need to say something to her Master at Arms, before everything was really lost. However, when the words came out, they were not positive. 

“It’s over,” she began her warm breath visible in the cold air. “Open the gates and round up the men, Sir Rodrik, we’ll meet the Hound in the courtyard.”

Sansa almost stuttered as she used Clegane’s nickname, not knowing if he took pride in it or not. But those things didn’t really matter, not any more.

“But, my Lady, surrender to Lord Clegane and his men would mean the fall of the North. Your father would have fought to the very last man…”

“And you see where that got him, where it put my mother,” Sansa could not contain her anger, even if her long serving Master at Arms did not deserve its brunt.  _ She died of a broken heart, my younger brothers of illness and Arya… _

Her sister had left on a hunt, hoping to return with a fat deer for their meal, she had never returned. Sansa had sent out men to find her, but there was nothing--not a trace of her only sister. Needless to say It was an emotional time, the fall of her lands, the destruction of the Stark name.  _ The end of days for me, for us... _

“I’ll have no more bloodshed, I’ll see no more men and women die. If I meet him in the courtyard, allow him willingly into this castle, then I have the moral high ground of giving him something--instead of having it snatched from me.” The maturity of her words and tone shocked Sansa, having found an inner strength she had never tapped into before.

Sir Rodrik considered something a moment, then bowed slightly before he made his way to the gates. Sansa let out the breath she had been holding as he did so, satisfied she had given an order in the proper tone as well as given him a good reason for it. 

The battle was coming to a close, Sansa knew it because there was much less noise. What had been crying had either turned to quiet sobbing or silence. Death was slowly taking over the field. She knew her time was short, she knew she needed to hurry. Her feet moving as quickly as possible, Sansa made her way down the stairs and into the courtyard. She drew all the remaining women and children to her, and ordered what was left of Sir Rodrik’s men to sheith their arms. 

Then she walked out into the muddy courtyard of her home, and waited. 

It had begun to rain, a half hard slush falling from the sky as one would expect at the changing of the seasons. Even in her woll dress and medium weight cloak, she could feel the cold creeping down into their bones. But she did not move, she willed herself not to feel the cold that was ravaging her from outside as well as from within, her heart heavy at the thought of surrender. 

She continued to wait, her eyes trained on the gates, knowing inevitably who would pass through. 

He came on his black charger, bloody, muddy and soaked to the bone. Clegane’s hideous dog’s head helmut was strung to the side of his horse, clinking against the saddle as he rode into the courtyard. He was flanked by two of his men, without a doubt his lieutenants. Sansa watched while his eyes darted around the yard, looking for any sign of attack. He would quickly come to the conclusion they were in no danger. There were no men left, other than her personal guard under Sir Rodrik. Around them were the sick, the old, women, children, and a few animals.  _ The whole of my kingdom,  _ Sansa thought bitterly.

For as much as it pained Sansa to be there, to give into a southern conqueror, she began to feel relief. There was the faint thought that, maybe, they would not starve in a siege or fall sick due to living in such close quarters. It made her feel like she was doing the right thing, even if it was hard.

Sansa stood tall, straightening her posture to her full height. She had grown much since they had spoken last, and she hoped that would make her seem more of a woman and less the child she felt. She would need to negotiate with him now, and she had little experience other than argumentation with her brothers and sisters. She was certainly not ready to deal with a man of this kind be it in negotiation, battle, or alone. 

Sandor Clegane and his men dismounted, all the while keeping an eye out for anything unexpected. They were weary of her open invitation to come in, of her surrender that must have been so sweet to them, yet it had also taken their glory.  _ Perhaps I’m not as poor at this as I thought,  _ Sansa kept her expression neutral. 

The Hound was an extraordinarily tall man. It made Sansa wonder how much more steel they needed to use to clad the entirety of his body in armor. If it was as heavy as it looked, Clegane did not show it. Six hours of battle had left him alert and covered in bits of dirt and bone.  _ War suits him,  _ was the first thing Sansa thought as he walked toward her. 

He did her the courtesy of removing his gauntlets, revealing his dirt and blood covered hands. Sansa didn’t have to look down at her own hands to know they would be dwarfed by him, like everything else about her. Much to Sansa’s surprise, he was calm, almost comfortable while he approached her.  _ This is where he’s most comfortable, where he knows he has the upper hand. _

She could not read what he was thinking, Clegane’s eyes gave nothing away.  _ Perhaps it's better this way, that I’ll speak from the heart.  _

Her opponent stood in front of her a long while, long enough to compel her to speak. “I want safe passage to the Wall for Sir Rodrik and his men. They have not raised arms against you, and I prefer to handle this the northern way.”

“But, my Lady…”Sir Roderik began, but Sansa held her hand up quickly to silence him. It was a motion she had seen her father perform many times before, and she used it to great effect.

“I will watch them cross the threshold of this castle, and expect they will not be harassed on their way to the crows,” Sansa spoke loudly and clearly, almost fooling herself into thinking she had been doing this for a while. 

Sandor Clegane bore a hole through her with his eyes, but he listened. A hand on the hilt of his sword, the other at his side. “Then, I would ask that these women and children be spared both their lives and their bodies. Allow them to return to their farms in peace…”

“And what of you, Lady Stark?” She had not heard Clegane’s voice in many years, but its deep baritone rumble was felt in her chest. His voice was gravely, and he spoke quietly, only enough for her and the people immediately surrounding them to hear.

Inhaling Sansa slowly answered, struggling to maintain an even keel to her voice, “You may do as you wish with me,” that sentence came out easier than she thought it would, “but please don’t hurt my people anymore.” 

Tears welled up in her eyes unbid, and she felt no shame for it. There was nothing to be happy about, her wet eyes not begging for anything. They were merely unable to contain the emotion trapped within her. 

The mighty warrior crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her up a bit. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Lady Stark. Had these been different times, I would have sent your father a dozen fine western Stallions for the mere chance to vie for your favor. But times have changed.”

“Yes, they have.” She agreed, doing her best not to tremble in his suffocating presence. 

“I agree to your terms,” Clegane began. “Hains, escort Lady Stark’s Master at Arms and his men through the North gate, and make sure they keep riding in that direction.” His man nodded and Sansa’s eyes followed Sir Rodrik until he was past the gates.  _ May the gods be with you,  _ she prayed, though she did not consider herself particularly pious. 

“As for the rest of you,” the Hound’s eyes turned to address the mass of women and children around her. “Go to your homes if they still stand. But I plan to winter here, and will pay handsomely for your service in the castle. So choose.”

Sansa could see some discussing amongst themselves, a few making their way to the gates, some staying. She could not blame them, but it felt treasonous and made her feel even more powerless against him.

“And you, Lady Stark. I’ll need you to heat the thermal baths under the castle and to wait for me there.” Clegane eyed her more openly now, probably imagining what it would be like to share the sauna with her. Then he added, “I don’t think I’ve ever had my own private bath girl before.”

The very insinuation that she was his servant had just added insult to injury, Sansa’s hand moved faster than her brain, and her good sense, striking the fierce Hound on the cheek. She heard some women gasp, she felt her body tremble knowing she’d invited him to retaliate. Her eyes went to his hands, all but the fingernails covered in grit, his long digits flexing quickly then releasing. . 

“She’s still got a bit of spirit in her, my Lord.” Those words came from his side, one of his lieutenants wore a smug grin and looked her up and down with a hunger in his eye. 

The whole time Clegane’s facial expression never changed, his eyes never strayed from hers. He almost didn’t need to physically restrain her, the heaviness of his stare, the depth of his mesmerizing presence kept Sansa rooted in place. 

“That’s not just any spirit,” the Hound answered, and he smiled for the first time Sansa could remember. For as much as it should have frightened her, the terrible burns crossing his face pulling into a hideous grin, it did not. It made his face interesting, gave it a character worthy of a northman. 

“There’s a bit of wildling in her,” he continued, the back of a dirty finger stroked her cheek with a surprising softness. 

That did not stop her from glaring daggers at her captor, reddened at his words out of anger and shame. She knew what she would have to do with him, but to say it so publically just made it more painful to live with. 

“Oh,” he paused a moment, finally turning his head to the man who had spoken up, “look at her like that again, and you’ll get a beating within an inch of your life. Understood?”

The younger man swallowed hard, his cheeks reddening from under the dirt and grime caked on his face. 

“Girl,” Clegane looked at one of the maids who had volunteered to stay, “take Lady Stark to the baths and show her what to do.” 

Before Sansa could open her mouth to protest again, the girl took her by the elbows and moved her quickly, “Come, my Lady,” she whispered, “there’s no need to draw the ire of a man like that. He’s of the mind to beat you even if you don’t egg him on.” 

Smiling weirdly at the maid’s words, Sansa had not considered the things he might do to her. The impact his large hands could have on her tiny body, had not crossed her mind. Ideas about how his anger and physicality could play out against her, never once considered. Her father had never beaten her mother, never raised a hand to his woman.  _ But he loved her,  _ Sansa told herself,  _ she was not some prize to be won. She was precious to him, and I’m… _

Her thoughts were interrupted as they reached the baths. In the bowels of the castle, her forefathers had harnessed the natural hot springs to their advantage. There was a ritual to the whole thing, a way to stay healthy in the winter and to heal tired bodies. First one would wash, then wrap themselves in a medium weight cotton towel--there were a mixture of saunas both wet and dry, and small pools of different water temperatures. Some parts were nude, others were not, that was why the sexes were never mixed-- _ Except for husband and wife. _

Her heart stopped, and all the air rushed out of her body. Before Sansa knew it, she was staring up at the ceiling, the gravity of her situation, the realization that there was no such thing as a sweet surrender only just catching up with her.


	3. The Dreadful Art of Informal Negotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor realizes he needs more than conquering the castle to capture Sansa Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been so delayed....work has been oddly busy these days!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

#  The Dreadful Art of Informal Negotiation

By the time Sandor had wrapped up his personal business, ensured his men had space within the walls of the castle, and cleared up some long running disputes amongst the leadership of his army, dusk had begun to fall. Autumn was turning to winter, which meant night did not just creep up on you--it pounced from the shadows and enveloped you quickly. Sandor hated the feeling of imbalance an early night brought with it. The way these long days of darkness messed your sense of sleep, only made it more difficult for foreigners to stay here. 

_ It looks like we’re gonna have to get used to it,  _ Sandor said to himself, knowing he and his men were to spend the winter here.  _ And who knows, maybe more _ .  __

Sandor walked through the castle feeling the incredible weight of this armor more than usual. Even against an army of old and ailing Northmen, the battle had been long and bloody. The Hound couldn’t remember a time where he’d fought with such vigor. 

_ Probably because there was actually something to fight for,  _ he mused, unable to ignore the pain of his exhausted body. 

Far from being a young pup, Sandor’s thirty six years of age were beginning to show themselves in ways he had never dreamed. He’d been a soldier most of his life, having bloodied his sword before the age of fifteen in Robert’s Rebellion. In those days, and until very recently, he was able to fight a battle, drink with the boys, and even squeeze in a little excitement from the bands of working women that followed the armies. Sandor smirked bitterly, grappling with the urge to limp as he reflected on the past.

Those days were behind him now, and Sandor’s body made sure to remind him of that on a regular basis, especially in times like these. Six hours of hand-to-hand combat would be enough to exhaust any man, and Sandor’s aggressive fighting style, combined with the weight of his armor and sword, put an extra strain on him. His muscles burned, his bones ached, his joints cried out for help. This was one of the reasons he had suggested they meet in the thermal baths. The warm mineral waters, the intense heat of the sauna would bring a much needed relief to his ailments. 

_ Perhaps I’ll even be able to get out of bed in the morning,  _ he thought sarcastically. __

If there was one thing Sandor needed to ensure, it was that he was not perceived as weak. Physically or otherwise, weakness could shift the extremely tentative hold he had on the North and West. Winter was a time to rest, recover, and make allies. Sansa was not just the only known living Stark, but the key to ensuring the other northern lords would support him. 

Whether she realized it or not, he had come to negotiate with her this evening. It would be an informal negotiation of course, one which took place in the depths of Winterfell’s thermal baths. But that was fine by him. They needed to decide what a new beginning could look like, how they could join their influence, and when she would be ready to accept him as her husband. So he did his best to suffer in silence, to keep a steady walk to the baths, even if it was incredibly painful. 

_ I’m getting too old for this shit,  _ he repeated to himself bitterly. 

In truth, Sandor had never expected to live long, few men in his line of work did. For what it was worth, his gift for combat and his mind for tactics had paid in ways he could not have imagined. Everything he had absorbed during his time in King’s Landing, and every gut feeling he had followed had led him to this point. In front of this door. Mere moments from laying his eyes on the woman who had haunted him for the last five years. 

He took a deep breath. This civil war playing out in Westeros was far from over, Sandor knew that. His capturing of Winterfell and eventual marriage to its Lady would not simply end what her ill fated betrothal began. Yet, he had gained considerable ground in the last few years, brought more men to his cause, and strengthened his leadership of the West. With any luck he could woo Sansa to his side, and consolidate their influence. __

_ But that falls into the finer points of conquest,  _ something he knew he wasn’t good at. 

The Hound thought back to the words he and Tyrion Lannister had shared in Winterfell during the spring festival. He was thankful for the little man’s warning, grateful that he had not fallen under the yoke of the Lannisters as the war began. Even knowing what the patriarch of the Lannisters had planned for the young Lady Stark, Sandor could not have known there would be such an uproar from the other high lords. 

Great Lords always complained about betrothals, it was commonplace. However, as the great houses of Dorne, Highgarden, and Dragonstone protested that they had not been consulted on this match, the weak temperament of Joffrey could not handle insubordination. The boy King, in all his wisdom, had gone behind his grandfather’s back to suppress them with military force. The rumors surrounding the King’s assisination pointed to the Queen of Thornes, but then who could really say? There were enough people in high places that would have profited from his death, and even more that would profit from all out war. 

_ And now I’m here, and she’s just through that door.  _ The very thought of Sansa put a grin on his face. She was even more stunning than he had envisioned, and strong too. She had grown into her role as the Lady of Winterfell well, even if it had been thrust upon her at an inopportune time. 

While he fought his way to her, Sandor had often reflected as to whether she had found that moment to define her, and what she had decided to do with it. Encountering her today left no room for interpretation, her path to strong northern womanhood had been forged through pain, suffering, and now surrender. 

_ She’s a cunning little fox though,  _ Sandor snorted preparing himself for what was sure to be a spirited negotiation of their roles. Surrendering the castle instead of allowing him to take it by force had given her a better bargaining position. Whether she knew it or not, she had made herself as an equal instead of his prisoner--and that had pleasantly surprised him.

Demanding the release of her people had essentially stolen a spoil of war from Sandor’s men. Sansa forced him into a position to give her what she wanted in exchange for her agreement to be his wife. It was an unusual move, but a smart one. It had been folly to underestimate the bargaining position of a woman, but that was behind him now. 

_ She has quite the spirit,  _ he grinned, adjusting his armor and shifting his hound’s head helmet under his arm. Sandor had never been slapped by anybody before. Her anger had both surprised and amused him. It had not been wrong of course, he had flaunted his win over her, asserted his dominance in front of his men and her surfs. 

_ But that’s the game isn’t it? Statecraft is nothing more than making others believe you have the upper hand.  _ Sandor thought,  _ With time she’ll learn when to swallow that pride, and maybe we can learn to work together. Fuck, maybe we could even care for each other. _

Butterflies rose in Sandor’s stomach. He was rarely nervous for anything, but there was just something about Sansa that sucked all the air out of his lungs. She made him excited and tentative all at the same time. 

Pushing the door open, Sandor was greeted by a dark stone entryway. A few oil lamps gave a warm, exotic glow to the room, allowing him to see the Lady of Winterfell clearly. Sansa had a white cloth wrapped around her body, her knees and shoulders exposed to his eyes. Her hair was matted to her face and neck due to the heat and dampness of the room. His eye lingered on a stray piece of her hair, which meandered across her chest down between her breasts. 

_ She doesn’t know what she can do to a man,  _ he realized, feeling weak in the knees from more than just age.

Anxiety filled her blue eyes, her mouth slightly open. Sansa stood from the heated stone she was sitting on, the cloth for him folded over her forearm. They stared at one another a long while, he in his armor and she in her bathing cloth. He didn’t know what she was searching for or why. All he knew was that, if he didn’t get out of this armor fast, he was going to faint from the heat. 

Sandor’s words came in a whisper, “Don’t just stand there, girl, help me get this bloody armor off.”

She didn’t argue, but that didn’t mean she was pleased to be there either. Sansa couldn’t hide her anger, nor disguise her fear of him.  _ She’ll get over these things,  _ he reassured himself, knowing that they would have to eventually find their way together. Whether they liked it or not.

Sandor placed his helmet on the floor next to him, knowing he would need both of his hands to help her remove the metal plate from his body. There was something beautiful about her kneeling to begin removing his greeves. It made him feel more like a high lord than what he really was, an opportunist with a flare for swordplay. The Hound had never reveled at the touch of a woman before, but the way her tiny fingers ran along the inside of his calf until she found the straps made the hairs raise on his skin despite the warmth of the room.

Moving on to his cuisse, the part of his armor that protected his thighs, her hands faltered for a moment. The straps holding that part of his suit to his body were buried high on his thighs, nearly gracing their apex. With a bit of tentativeness, and a breath to soothe herself, Sansa forced her fingers to trace up his inner leg, brushing against his cock and balls briefly to find the strap. Even over the trousers any normal man would have tented his steel codpiece right away, but Sandor’s exhaustion was getting the better of him. He would have to settle for half-hard and not passing out, and for once he was ok with that. 

She almost seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when she moved on from his legs to his chest. Sandor helped her with his breastplate, knowing it would be heavy. It was dented and there was even a hole in it, but somehow Sandor always managed to make it out of battles intact. Their eyes met again, and Sandor still did not know what was going on in her head. He searched for the young girl of thirteen, bold enough to corner him and naive enough to touch his face and say his name. 

With only the weight of his tunic and trousers, Sandor felt lighter than air, though that did little to tame the screams of his aching body. “You’re filthy, my Lord,” she said with little emotion, “You’ll need to wash before we enter the sauna.” 

Even with the low light it wasn’t difficult to see that his off white tunic had become dark, stained with the blood of Northmen. Just looking at his hands, Sandor could barely distinguish his nails from the rest of his fingers, the grit and grime making them blend in with the rest. There was no doubt in his mind he stunk to the Seven Heavens, so a proper cleaning would be a reprieve for both of them. Stripping off his clothing without a second thought , Sandor walked into the tight cabin with a wolf’s head spout. 

He only just fit, an inch on either side of the stone wall for him to move and rinse the dirt from him. Sandor had to scrunch himself together just to make enough space to turn around. It was part of the ritual of course, the reason Sansa stood before him in a soaked bathing towel. Thinking about how comical the situation must look to her, Sandor stole a glance in Sansa’s direction. She had demurely turned her head in order to save herself from his nudity. With a grin on his face, Sandor pulled the lever to his right, consequently shrieking like a green boy as the ice cold water hit his body. It felt like a thousand daggers were attacking his skin, the way the water crashed onto his form, making his balls jump into his throat. 

He heard a snort from where Sansa stood. She had known how the water would come out and had neglected to warn him. Feeling anger rise in his chest as he fumbled in the tiny cabin like an idiot. He had to remove the grit from his body, but the temperature of the water was merciless to his foreign constitution. Shaking, trembling, and scraping up his elbows even more than they already were, Sandor made quick time of his initial cleaning. 

Pushing the latch back into place, and stopping the water, Sandor turned and took the cloth from her outstretched arm. Before using it to try his body, Sandor took her chin in his thumb and forefinger, “Got any other little tricks I should be aware of? Any other way to get even with me?”

Her eyes never left his, there was no demure avoidance of his question. “Is this the part where you remind me that your protection comes at a price? That the wider I open my legs, and the more I writhe underneath you, the less my people will suffer.”

They were standinding close to one another, Sandor as naked as his name day, and her with only a thin damp cloth to cover her nudity. “Aren't all marriages transactional? If it’s not money, it’s food, safety, stability,” he retorted.

“Not if there’s love,” she whispered, trembling as he put both his hands on her tiny shoulders. “Love is unconditional, there’s no keeping score, no tit-for-tat. Why are we tiptoeing around what you’re really here for?”

“I marched my men up here so that you could be protected, to keep you from men who....” Sandor hadn’t considered what the next words out of his mouth would be, only that their conversation was leading him in a direction that he was unaccustomed to. She noticed his hesitation, he knew he needed to fill the gap, “...who would use you.”

At that she snorted sarcastically, as if he were full of shit. That answer was full of shit, but not for the reasons she was thinking. It was a given that any man taking her to wife could gain from her lands and name--but in order to truly profit, you had to hold onto them. It would take more than mere conquest of the Winterfell to hold the North. It was now, in this room where the real battle began, where he would have to convince Sansa Stark that his intentions were for more than what she could give him, but for what he could give her.

Gripping her shoulders firmly so as to get her attention, Sandor spoke, “Who would you have rather had come here? Lord Tywin, your father’s murderer? How about old Lord Frey?” her eyes didn’t soften, but she was listening. “Stannis Baratheon, who’s old enough to be your father, and the most self absorbed cock on the planet? Or the cripple of Highgarden? Wait, I know, the crown prince of Dorne. He’s only eight, but I hear he’ll be a strapping lad one day.” 

She glared at his sarcasm, but spoke not a word. “Being first doesn’t always count for something, but this time it does.” He spat, doing his best to justify his opportunistic nature. 

“If you truly cared you would have sent a messenger. We could have joined forces instead of fighting. But you didn’t want that, did you?” Sansa did not raise her voice, but her vitriol was palatable. 

“You came here to take. To take the castle, the North,” her eyes went down to his half hard cock that amply filled the space between them, “It’s not enough that my father is dead and my brother is missing. You would drag me down here, in my home, use your manhood as a weapon to take my dignity, and whatever piece of myself is left.” 

She tried to pull away from him, but Sandor kept her firmly in place. “No one can hear my screams down here, nobody will know of my pain while I’m at your mercy.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she spoke, the raw emotion of the day making itself known in the dimly lit depths of Winterfell’s baths. 

Sandor would have been lying to say he hadn’t wanted to bring her here to enjoy the view her youth and beauty would afford him. Even if he looked the part, he was no monster. The tears of women had never garnered much sympathy from the Hound, but then again very few people stood up to him as she was now. Those rosy cheeks made flush by the heat of the room and her fury, only served to enhance her beauty. Her eyes staring daggers through his already battered and bruised body, were honest in their hatred. He would need to do someting extraordinary to win her to his side. The pressure not to fail was only mounting.

“Just do it,” she choked out, ripping the cloth from her body and letting it fall to the floor. “But you will never get the satisfaction of hearing me beg for mercy or cry out in pain. There are things that conquest cannot win!”

Sandor made it a point not to look down, but to keep his eyes on her desperate ones. He would have to control his obvious desire for her if he wanted to have her consent. Not just consent to lie with her, but to rule with her. The Hound wanted what conquest could not provide him. But now that he was here, with her, he realized he did not know how. What became clear to him was that he would have to fight the final battle for Winterfell alone and injured, in the depths of this castle as well as in their private chambers. It was one he could not lose.. 

So he spoke honestly, because it was not in his nature to lie, “I’m not my brother, so you can dry your tears.” She had not been expecting that, and he was grateful to draw her off her emotional spiral. 

He brought his thumb to her cheek as gently as he could, and brushed her thick tears away. “Now take that towel and let’s go to the sauna, I…” just in that moment his knees buckled slightly and he faltered. Sandor was lucky enough to catch himself, but not without using Sansa for support.

She seemed surprised at his obvious weakness in this moment. Yet as her eye looked at him more closely, she could make out the extent of his injuries. His body was battered and bruised. If it looked anything like he felt, there were very few parts of his body that weren’t slowly discoloring. These would only become more prominent with time, and might even be more painful tomorrow. 

“Help me,” he said, looking over to where the door to the sauna stood. “Then you can accuse me of crimes I have yet to commit to your heart’s content.”

Sandor’s words had surprised her, perhaps even given her food for thought. Unsure of what to make of the whole thing, Sansa did as she was bid. He was grateful she didn’t argue with him further, unsure if he’d be able to stand upright much longer. His right arm around her shoulders, she provided him enough stability that he could limp the several meters needed to get into the sauna. Throwing a towel on the wooden seat for his naked bum, the Hound did his best to sit without flinching. 

He didn’t know where to go from here, or what would happen next. This was uncharted territory, new for both of them. The only thing Sandor was sure of, was that he was willing to go to great lengths to prove himself to her.


	4. The Purification Properties of Steam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa find an understanding in the baths.

#  The Purification Properties of Steam

It was deathly silent in the depths of Winterfell’s baths. Northern etiquette frowned upon speaking while in the sauna, and Sansa was thankful for a reprieve from her earlier  _ negotiations _ . Conversation was in conflict with the belief that sweating in the near dark was an introspective journey, individual and pure. Foreigners rarely understood this, but then again, they had little respect for the great history and traditions of her homeland. 

This was what made the man sitting before her different. 

Years ago, as Sansa had glimpsed him for the first time, Sandor Clegane had surprised her with his rugged appeal. Southerners were known for their silks and comfortable living standards, not for their constitutions. In the North even highlords had calloused hands and sunburnt skin. This was because they understood the necessity to be with their people, to roll up their sleeves and help them. Men with soft skin and beautiful faces were regarded with suspicion in her land. 

_ But not him. He was one of us and never knew it. _

She remembered Clegane riding into Winterfell on his huge war horse, a shoulder height above every other man. He was at the head of the caravan, which meant he was the strongest and most trusted of Lord Tywin’s men. It was no surprise to her, as whispers of the large southerner had made their way through the courtyard, he certainly deserved to be there.

Sansa remembered thinking that, of all the men from King’s Landing, the Hound was the only of this escort who did not look like he was freezing. He wore his light leather armor in the northern way, without fur or an extra cloak. It had surprised her, even at that age, that a man from the South would be so bold at that time of year. Spring brought with it violent storms, cold winds, and even light snows. But she recalled distinctly how he had even been flushed from the ride, eager to change into his cotton tunic. 

Clegane’s beard had been longer than anybody else in Lord Tywin’s host. Sansa knew instantly that meant he did not shave clean, even when he was in the city.  _ It suited him then, and suits him now.  _ His dark long hair and stormy grey eyes had made him stand out, had piqued her adolescent curiosity more than any other had before him. 

Pouring another ladle of water over the hot coals, Sansa inhaled the fresh minty herbs she had placed there. The sauna was small, only ever meant for three to four people at one time. With her and the Hound inside, there might not have been room for another--he was so large and imposing.The benches were made of stone, all carved from the rockbed found under the castle, all one continuous piece. The tiny rectangle of a room was cozy to say the least, its warmth keeping the blood flowing and the body strong. There were two oil lamps, which hung in opposite corners of the tiny room, casting just enough light for her to distinctly make out Clegane’s face.

_ That face,  _ Sansa could see bits of his scaring through the gaps in Clegane’s fingers. He was holding his head in his hands, giving himself to the steam. The burns had given his skin a gnarled appearance, like roots weaving their way through the dirt unimpeded. The sun, exposure to the elements, had taken its toll as well. It had a leathery look to it, setting it apart from the more expressive, untouched part of his face. 

_ He could be half the size he is and still invoke fear,  _ she mused, deciding that she rather liked his unique appearance. It was because she sensed there was something more.

He sat across from her, nearly at the edge of the bench. Clegane’s legs were set apart, his elbows resting on his knees, his head still in his hands. He was in pain, any fool could see it. The closer Sansa looked at him the more obvious it was how much of a toll today’s battle, and others, had taken on him. His body was a landscape of violence, the only existing annals of a man who had spent his entire life at war.  _ It should not surprise me that he wants peace, despite what others say. _

Reflecting on the events of the day, he could have done many horrible things to her and everybody in the castle. But he had not. Clegane had marched his men peacefully into her family’s holdfast, accepted her terms, and had begun to set up camp.  _ Sir Roderik warned me of so many things, of what it would mean for me if a man like the Hound took the castle. Yet none of it has come to pass, and here we are. _

Her Master-at-Arms had suggested suicide, claiming it would be better to die pure than ravaged by the southern dog and his men. Sansa had considered this, of course, but could not bring herself to do it. She knew she was part of the objective, that her body was the bargaining chip that had been used to ignite this war. This afternoon in the courtyard, she held no illusions that he would be gentle, but needed to make it clear to him that she understood the terms of her own surrender.  _ A girl, surrendering to a man, for the good of a failing North,  _ the very thought made her heart hurt. Centuries of uninterrupted rule,  _ And now this. _

So, given all that had happened, it seemed foolish to even bother wrapping a towel around herself, pressed tightly into the sauna cabin naked, with Sandor Clegane. He could take what he wanted, any time he wanted. Yet he did not. The man in front of her was not just preoccupied with his own pain, but with something more. He was thoughtful in a moment where, she had been told, when men were not. 

Both stripped down with nothing more than a layer of sweat, Sansa felt a sense of equality with the conqueror of her castle. Even if that was not the case, she could not deny the freedom she felt in showing him she was unafraid, that there was nothing he could do to break her spirit. 

In truth, she was no longer sure he wanted to break her spirit at all. 

Her eye lingered on his body through the steam, taking in his muscular frame. Even hunched over, his face in the palms of his huge hands, he looked ready to fight. Taught skin pulled over honed muscles that knew nothing other than how to inflict violence and pain. 

_ How can I blame myself for stealing a glance at him,  _ Sansa thought, her gaze moving from his torso to between his massive legs. His limp manhood hung over the edge of the bench, reaching deep into the darkness that covered the floor. It was thick at its base, reminding her more of a horse than a man. She’d heard other girls in the castle speak of their encounters of men, even comparing the size and shapes of the manhoods they had seen--none of them compared to this. None of them were even close.

Clegane’s ample manhood made her feel something deep in her core, stirred something in her that had been sleeping her entire life. Sansa felt lucky that the heat of the room was so strong that her skin was naturally flushed, otherwise she would have given away the thoughts his most prized possession evoked. What had been the source of her fear only moments before, was slowly becoming an object of her desire. 

She felt panicked, and curious, and unsure.

He picked the wrong moment to look up from his silent meditation. Clegane’s eyes realized where her’s had been, and she saw a twinkle spark in them though he remained expressionless. Sansa quickly averted her gaze, choosing a small puddle on the floor to hide her shyness. 

There were a few moments of tense silence, Sansa could sense they both wanted to say something but were not sure how to, or even what. When she glanced up again, she could see Clegane shift, signaling his want to leave the steamy sauna. For as much as foreigners couldn’t stand the cold, they couldn’t stand the warmth either. Sansa felt a corner of her mouth pull at the sight of the greatest warrior in Westeros capitulating to the heat, and to her. She rose, slowly making her way to the door. This time she noticed he did take her body with a thinly veiled hunger that excited more than it instilled fear.

The Hound stood of his own accord, the relaxing properties of the steam and herbs clearly taking effect. Sansa led him down a dark hallway to an area of the baths, where three pools stood. The two to her right were for rinsing off the sweat of the sauna, but one was serviced by the ice cold river that ran near Winterfell. The other from a small hot spring, with more tepid water. Once rinsed, one would then go to the large warm bathing pool to swim and use their soap.

A true northerner would rinse in the coldest pool, it was said to harden the body and stave off sickness. It hovered just above freezing, so many foreigners chose the warmer option. Challenging him with a backward glance, Sansa plunged herself into the ice cold pool. The water covered her from head to toe, making her feel alive--and happy to be so. With another dunk she pulled herself over the side and sat there a moment, giving her body a moment to adjust.

She could see the Hound debating which to take, knowing if he didn’t follow suit she would think of him as other, as weak. Inhaling he did as she had, dunked himself into the cold pool and did his best not to make a sound. Though she was sure she heard a slight whimper mixed with the chattering of teeth.

_ That’s good, he’s trying, _ perhaps she should have been surprised by this. But she was not.

Some moments passed as he caught his bearings and his blood pressure settled. Then she called out to him, “Sit,” she motioned to the short-legged wooden stool she had placed in the water. 

He did as he was bid, his eyes never leaving her. It was hard to detect, but Sansa could hear the off rhythm of his limp as he walked to her on the wet floor. He eased himself into the washing pool, the water coming to his waist. The Hound sat on the small stool and it was almost comical. His legs so long that his knees stuck out of the water, which only came to just below his chest.

Lathering the soap in her hands she started with his hair, her fingers moving in and out of his long dark brown strands. He reveled in her touch, though he fought hard to hide it. Sansa didn’t know what to make this reaction. It was as if he’d never had a gentle touch before and wanted to enjoy it fully, not knowing when the next one would be. Sansa felt conflicted. Her memories, their forced intimacy, this moment. So she asked him for something she desperately wanted to know, hoping this would give her a bearing on the man sitting in front of her, “Tell me of my father and brother.”

She felt him clench at her words, her hands having moved to his neck and shoulders. Clegane turned then, looking up at her with his deep grey eyes, “Sure you want that? Sometimes ignorance is bliss.” His voice was gravely, deep, he was whispering though he did not have to.

“I can handle the truth,” she answered, feeling their connection grow. 

He narrowed his eyes critically a moment, assessing the true depth of her desire to know the answer to this question. Whatever he found there seemed to be enough, he nodded and turned back around. 

“Your father met Lord Tywin on an open field, somewhere out by the Twins. I wasn’t there myself, but the men who told me I trust.” Sansa’s heart was clenching, she had heard rumors of what had happened that day--but always third of fourth hand. She dipped the sponge in the water, then thought better of it, opting to lather up her hands instead.

“Battles are always 50/50,” he continued, “it doesn’t matter if you think one side might win over the other. There are always factors that can change things in the blink of an eye. Your father surely knew that, as much as the next man.” Sansa’s soapy fingers slid over his shoulders and down every ripple of his upper back. The Hound was a solid man, and there was an odd comfort in that. 

“The wolves had a favorable position, the lions were better equipped. But a war isn’t one battle, it's the sum of many,” he cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with how the next part of his story would go. Sansa braced herself. 

“So when I heard your father had lost at the Twins, I didn’t think much of it,” he paused, “it was getting himself captured that surprised me. But then again, even in these times you would think there is still some honor among men.” Sansa’s stomach wheezed, and tears had already started forming in her eyes. She found herself gripping his biceps, unable to move--waiting for him to to reveal the thing she desperately wanted to know.

“They, uh, beheaded him, in the northern fashion. Then sewed a wolf’s head on his body and sent him running down the king’s road,” he was barely breathing, as if he were doing his best to concentrate on the sounds she was making.

Tears rolled down her face, and Sansa found it hard to breath. 

He moved quickly in the darkness, so much so that it caught Sansa off guard. His hand engulfed her own and pulled it to his chest. Sandor held it there a long while so she could feel the steadiness of his breathing, and the even thud of his heart. It was calming, her own body naturally fighting to get into sync with his--to save her from fainting and having a fit of hysteria. 

Sansa’s fingers laced into the thick hair of his chest, as if the closer she got to his skin with her fingertips the better off she would be. She gasped for air, fought the urge to crumble under the pain and anguish that came with knowing what had happened to her father. With effort, her breaths came inline with the calming rise and fall of his body. The Hound had not rushed to comfort her, but had allowed her not to feel alone either.  _ And that’s what really matters. _

His deep voice filled the void once more, “That’s part of the reason I ripped through the countryside. I can’t abide by that kind of shit.”

Sansa found herself cracking a small grin at ironic chivalry in his words. He could have come for anything, and yet it seemed he had come for her--and only her.

“And my brother?” Sansa asked after a long time passed.

Clearing her throat, Sansa washed under his arms, then moved in front of him. Clegane was comfortable in silence, more a man to take his time than to rush something. Sansa could see that, even if she did not know him well. 

“I sent scouts out, but they never found any trace of him or his armies. It’s like they vanished into thin air,” his eyes were on her so intensely she was sure he was committing her naked body to memory. Such a thought should have angered her, but it didn’t.

Sansa let out a sigh of relief at his words, but Sandor Clegane quickly corrected her. “Sansa, if he doesn’t find refuge for him and his men this winter…” he stopped to see if she was listening, “no Northman can survive a winter without food and shelter.”

He was right, but part of her wanted to have some kind of hope after all that had happened. Without warning Sansa’s legs felt weak, her body shook. Sensing her tentative footing, Sandor stood quickly, a large arm wrapped around her body cupping her neatly to his own. Her hands went reflexively to his chest to steady herself. Their eyes met and she saw compassion in them, something she did not know he could possess.

“Believe my words when I say I would have brought him back here alive,” his breathing had picked up, and his body was warm on hers.

“If only to give yourself a better bargaining position,” she said, her forehead nearly touching his own. Sansa did not say these words out of anger, but she had a burning urge to know what kind of a man Sandor Clegane was.

At that he snorted, “Did I need a better bargaining position?”

His breath was warm on her neck, both their breathing now labored. “You did make your authority known back there in the courtyard.” 

“You’re telling me that if it had been reversed, if I’d been captured and brought to you, you wouldn't have dolled out a little northern justice? The masses need to be sated.” It was almost teasing the way he said it, he punctuated the last sentence with pressing her against the wall. Sansa hadn’t even realized how he had picked her up, and that he’d brought her even closer to the stone. 

His formerly flaccid manhood was now hard as steel, pushing against her inner thigh and stomach, “Something tells me you wouldn't have been opposed,” she whispered. 

Sandor’s lips met hers then, soft at first, gentle -- almost timid. But, as she dug her fingers deeply into his chest, his kiss became harder and harder. No matter how hurt he might have been, it seemed he not only had the energy to stand, but to lift her from the floor. A second arm wrapped around her bum, bringing her woman’s place flush with his unapologetic erection.

She melted then, her arms encircling his thick neck, her legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. Sansa’s lips were starved for attention, following Sandor’s eagerly. They were smooth, save the burned part of them giving her a distinctly different feeling from the rest. It made them memorable, gave them more texture than normal lips would have had. Her thoughts were only confirmed as his lips made their way down her neck and over her clavicle.

A moan escaped her lips, and Sansa realized her hips were not her own. Sandor’s manhood could not be ignored, demanding she drag the lips of her swelling pussy over it, again and again. She didn’t want to breathe for fear it would shift their position, and stop building connection between them. The warm stone of the baths scratched her back while her hips dragged themselves up and down his entire length, applying more pressure with every stroke. 

Sansa was breathless, a fire spreading through her core.

“My lord,” a voice came from the near darkness of the baths, “there’s trouble at the gates. You’re needed…”

As quickly as their talk had escalated it stopped. Leaving them forehead to forehead, and in a rather precarious position. Sansa didn’t have time to think of how things looked, or how naked she was. She was far too occupied with Sandor. It had not been enough for him to take her home, but he also wanted her to surrender her heart.

Sansa could feel him exhale in disappointment, as he protected her nudity from the eyes of his lieutenant. “I’ll be there in a minute. Wait outside and see that Lady Stark is escorted to her chambers when she’s done here.”

He didn’t say another word, easing her down to the floor and standing in front of her until the other man left. Sansa watched while he took a moment to prepare himself for the outside world, inhaling deeply and setting his broad shoulders back. When he stood to his full height in a perfect solider’s posture, with his huge manhood jutting out far from his hips, Sansa almost felt like asking him to stay. 

Before she could formulate the words, he made his way to the exit. The void left by his absence was glaring. Sansa had never had to deal with these thoughts, with the kind of conflict she felt between her pride, her name, and her own desires. All she knew was the old northern addiage was true, steam did have purification properties. It had cleansed her of her past, and had made her refocus on the future. 


	5. In the Eyes of Gods and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa pickup where they left off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join us on discord for some great SanSan discussion:  
> https://discord.gg/Fj8QQGk

#  In the Eyes of Gods and Men

“Upstart sons of bitches,” Sandor muttered to himself. 

He couldn’t blame a few raggaband lower lords for riding up to Winterfell under cover of darkness, their eyes on the jewel of the North. If anything, he’d have done the same, just with a better trained army. 

Sandor did not often think of his reputation for blood lust to be advantageous in civilized negotiations, but that seemed to take a different significance in the North. Their torches in hand, Sandor could just make out a couple hundred men and their three leaders from the ramparts of Winterfell castle. He’d not bothered to put a cloak on, or his armor for that matter.  _ The bloody tossers needed to know I didn’t see them as a threat. They needed to know they were and are nothing to me other than skin and bones.  _

In truth, the Hound had been happy just for a clean tunic, pants, and boots. His body too tired and beat up from the day’s battle to bear the weight clad fighting required of him. This almost certainly had fueled his anger at the men, having been ripped from the arms of Sansa to deal with their insolence had made Sandor irritable, ready to bite at the first sign of weakness. 

There had been posturing from the younger men, threats from the sons of some lords with tiny keeps in who-the-fuck-really-knew-where. Sandor might have heard of one of the places, but they were all too small to matter. So the Hound had capitalized on that. If there was one thing he had learned in the halls of southern palaces, it was that drama was a key component to war time negotiation. With that in mind he used his size, reputation, and looks to sow the seeds of doubt in the minds of the band of men looking to raid the castle. 

“Take a step further, boy, and I’ll take no time to gut you and rape your bloody corpse,” Sandor had grinned then, hoping the ruin of his face would be caught by the light just right. His face was a hideous thing to see before you died, yet many men had met their fate at his hand. Imagery was key in this moment, and the more colorful words he could use to tell them they were going to be in deep shit if he needed to put his armor on again, the quicker he could get back to what he wanted--to rest. To be with her.

The moon had risen and fallen by the time they had talked the men down, then invited them in for food and ale. It was expected that Sandor break bread with the men, so he had done that, sitting at the head of the table. It was where a Stark should have sat, that fact was not lost on him.  _ It should be her,  _ he’d thought at that moment. 

When men drank they had loose jaws, and those jaws either talked about blood or sex. Word had gotten around about how he had been found in the heat of the moment, the Lady Stark clinging wantonly to his naked body. For his men, as well as their newly acquired northern friends, such a thing was to be worn as a badge of honor. More because she was beautiful and highborn, not because of what Sandor had found her to be. Intelligent, strong, brave to a fault. 

Sandor was a private man, he didn’t appreciate his business being discussed like the most interesting news in the castle, but at the same time it gave him a standing amongst the young lordlings. It was clear the northmen respected the Stark name, and coveted its lady. The mere idea that she might have chosen him over other men, legitimized Sandor in a way other things could not.  _ But it’s not over,  _ he thought,  _ this will all mean nothing before I have all of her.  _

As food and ale kept coming, Sandor wondered to himself whether what had happened in the baths had been about him, or the experimentation of a maiden who had stayed unclaimed too long. She was eighteen, a couple of years past the age of marriage for most highborn ladies. Sandor had banked on the fact that, even if he disgusted her physically, that her desire to have a man would overpower that. Perhaps he’d been right. Yet, he wanted her to like him, love him even. 

There was no conquest more fulfilling than that of the heart, Sandor had read that in some book of poetry he’d picked up years ago. Not because he was in love with the written word, but because it kept him awake on long night watches. The Hound had often laughed at that shit, not believing any of these whimsical words from men who had never left the safety of a castle, could reflect real life. Now he found himself in such a situation, where he had obtained his objective and yet would fail at everything if he didn’t claim her fully -- her heart.

Excusing himself from the Great Hall, Sandor made sure his men kept an eye on their guests. There would be no tomfoolery on his watch. The need for rest had overtaken his need for food and drink, his body threatening collapse if he didn’t find a bed.  _ And her.  _ Sandor felt if he left her too long, the progress in the bathes would be all for naught. 

The walls of Winterfell were so winding and dark, Sandor feared to lose his way to their chambers. It wasn’t lost on him, while he made his way through its twisted halls, that the holdfast was made to keep men out, not welcome them in. Compared to the Red Keep, its windows were small, its hallways closed, its stairwells a labyrinth of flagstone. Winterfell was not an opulent place, but built to survive the long harsh winters here, and to take a reprieve from the summer sun. 

The people of the North had a different idea of what beauty was, of what it meant to be alive. Sandor respected and understood that more than most. Even their lady had grit, her questions in the bathes had been a search for the truth, not a desire to be told a fairytale. He had not had the words to comfort her, but he had known her pain, felt it permeate from her hand on his chest and into his heart. 

_ She didn’t deserve that kind of agony,  _ but then again few people did.  _ Maybe me,  _ he chuckled to himself, rounding the final corner before ending at the last door on the left. Sandor nodded to his man, who nodded back and left. 

Sandor was nervous, looming behind the door before going in. He listened but heard no movement. Given the late hour he assumed she would be sleeping,  _ All the better.  _

For as much as he wanted to continue their intimate embrace from before, he wasn’t so sure he, or his cock, would have the gumption to move forward. Sandor was a battered, weary and tired old dog. To take a young spry filly like her the way she deserved, would be no small task.  _ I’ll need some rest first.  _

Opening the door quietly, Sandor stepped into the bedroom. It was much like he expected. The fire still crackled and popped in the fireplace, though it had burned through quite a bit of wood making the light in the room soft. There was a mahogany desk, large with an ornate chair. A wooden wardrobe was carved with flowers and braids, pained with red and yellow in the northern fashion. A chair near the fire had a basket with lady stuff beside it, needle point and the like. 

Then there was the bed. It was also carved from a dark wood. Big, certainly long enough for him and wide enough for both he and his soon-to-be wife. Sansa was sleeping on her side, her back to him. The furs covered her to her waist, her shoulders peeking out. She wore some kind of night dress which Sandor found amusing, given they had been naked before. But it mattered little. He took her in, her gorgeous mane of red hair fanned out across the sheets, the steady even sound of her breathing. 

Sandor removed his sword from his waist, setting it near the bedside table. He grasped the bottom of his tunic and pulled it slowly over his head. Each muscle in his shoulders and back were screaming at him, stiff and angry for what he things he had done to them. It was no small feat to pull it over his head. His boots and trousers were next, the cold air of the night pricking his skin making him slip his naked form under the covers quickly. 

She was clearly not a soldier, though he took great care to enter the bed, she did not move a muscle. Her breath still even, Sansa continued sleeping as Sandor decided just how he would orient himself next to her. He’d never shared a bed with a woman in this way, didn’t know what would be better--on his shoulder, back, who knew?

His movement made her stirr and she rolled toward him. Sandor quickly put an arm under her neck and pulled her to his chest. It was only now, as he lay his head down, that he could look her unabashed -- like he had done all those years before as she danced around the maypole. His imagination had not failed him then, he had known she would grow to be a beautiful woman, and she had. Pulling the furs up to her shoulder, Sandor could see the delicate features of her face more clearly. The slope of her nose, her graceful jawline, small but full lips. He was a monster in comparison, a devil who had capitalized on his size and strength to steal the maiden from a fair knight. 

And he was happy for it. 

Sandor’s fingers rubbed her bare arm under the furs and he reveled in her soft skin. She was a creature meant of the gods. There was an unusual calm that she brought to him, her mere presence the cure for his many ailments. Thus it should not have been a huge surprise to him how quickly his eyelids felt heavy carrying him into a much needed sleep. 

\---

She’d only stirred a bit, when Sandor’s eye flew open. He didn’t dare move, but he waited. The young lady of Winterfell did her best to unravel herself from his arms and legs, then exited the other side of the bed. Curious as to what she was up to, Sandor perked his ears up.

They had slept a while, there was a small ray of light creeping into the room from the shudders, and he was glad. Sandor never slept well, but exhaustion and contentment had made for good bedfellows and he felt rested--even if he could have slept more.

She padded across the room on bare feet, then made water in the chamber pot. Sandor had never thought much on the subject of high born ladies needing to relieve themselves, but understood they would be sharing many intimate things given their situation. So why not start with this? He could hear water pour into the basin and the light splashing sound of her cleaning herself before she made her way back to him. 

In a cheeky move, Sandor rolled over to see her and lifted the furs, an invitation to come in on his warmer side of the bed. Her face immediately reddened at the very idea that he could have known she was awake, or what she had been doing. Her sleeveless nightgown was white cotton and more revealing that she knew. Her red locks hung heavy over her shoulders, a mess from her deep sleep.

Sansa considered his request a moment, then decided to agree to his indecent proposal. They said nothing in the dark, her skin cold to the touch. He cupped her to his body, her back to his chest. Trying to find a comfortable position, she wiggled and moved against this body--it was far from unpleasant. Her bum fit perfectly on his hips, his cock resting tentatively in its cotton covered cleft. Sandor took the liberty to sniff her hair, something he’d wanted to do for a very long time. 

There was no fighting the incredible sensation of slowly becoming aroused. Unlike other intimate experiences in his life, there was no need to finish within the hour, or leave at the sudden return of a husband. They had all the time in the world, and yet, something inside him wanted to have her now. Sandor fought it, telling himself that when she was ready he would be too. 

Blood seeped into his cock steadily, and he relished the warmth and extra sensitivity it gave him. She was not asleep, her breathing was enough to indicate that. There was no doubt she didn’t feel a change in him from flacid to half hard. There was such a tense silence you could hear their breathing and nothing else. 

Sansa wiggled a bit which had the effect of rubbing his dick with her bum. He exhaled into her hair and returned the favor, bucking her pert ass with his quickly hardening cock. She was breathing in, her body no longer adjusting to a comfortable position, but teasing him to go further. The urge to feel her skin overtook Sandor suddenly, his fingers reaching for the hem of her night gown. 

There was no protest from her side as he dragged the fabric of her night gown slowly up, bearing the soft flesh of her bum to his hardened member. She whimpered at the feeling, and he dipped his hips so the head of his cock could be closer to her core. He was surprised by her wetness, his dick slipping against her folds easily, teasing more and more lubricant out. 

Pulling her cotton dress off completely, Sansa gave a yelp and he took that moment to turn her to face him. He didn’t know what to expect in those eyes, couldn’t read them for shit. Sandor didn’t know what he was looking for, a smile, her consent, so he pressed his lips to hers instead--and she readily complied. Her mouth was hungry, as was his -- both not having forgotten their lust in the bathes. 

Soreness and pain prevented him from properly mounting her right away, so Sandor quickly rolled so that she was on top of him. Her knees were forced into a wide straddle, his hands pressed her down so she lay nearly flat against his body. Their tongues still intertwined, Sandor could feel her hardened nipples brushing against his chest. 

She was a gift, something to be treasured. It was wrong to want her so badly, to be unable to control himself, and yet here they were. Kissing in the early dawn, with a passion he had never felt before. Using his long arms to his advantage, Sandor reached around her leg taking hold of his aching cock. He pulled back his foreskin, then rubbed his engorged head over her entrance. 

Two could play at the teasing game, and he needed to know how badly she wanted him. Sandor’s fingers sank into her bum, helping her drag herself across every inch of his hardness. Her kisses became sloppy, her breathing more erratic. The girl was hungry for sex, he couldn’t deny it, nor could he not take full advantage of it. Lifting his hips at the right moment, Sandor caught her opening on a downward slide, the head of his cock slipping easily between her wet lips. 

A gasp escaped her lips, she pulled her face back from him and her eyes widened. There was no anger in her eyes, just surprise. Sansa sat there for some moments astride him, the tip of his cock lodged just at her maiden’s head. Her breasts moved up and down with her breathing, a hand found his shoulder to stabilize her. 

Sandor knew the things told to women like Sansa about their maidenheads, but he also knew what was told to women about men like him. He could see her thinking, sorting out the conflict between mind and body in her head. It was hard not to rush her, not to be the monster her Sept had told her he would be. Sandor’s feral side wanted nothing more than to sheath his large manhood into her completely, to claim her in the eyes of gods and men. 

_ But that’s not conquest, it’s domination,  _ Sandor lifted a hand to her breast, caressing it gently.

She was tight, Sandor could feel her lips spreading wide to take even this tiny part of him. His heart was pounding out of his chest, anticipation sucking any logical thought from his brain. Sansa’s hand twitched on his chest, then her second hand found his shoulder. He reached for her cheek, his other hand stroking the small of her back. 

Whimpering, Sansa slid herself gently down his cock. Sandor moaned, the feeling of her warmth painstakingly claiming him was the sweetest feeling he’d known. Sweet because she’d given it to him.


	6. Fates Intertwined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa consummate their relationship and find a mutual respect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let there be lemons!
> 
> Join us on discord, ask for the link!

#  Fates Intertwined

His name escaped her lips unbid, making Sandor’s eyes widen in poorly disguised shock. Her lover’s free hand went to her cheek, moving the hair from her face so he had an unobstructed view of her eyes. 

_ He’s in disbelief I would utter his name,  _ Sansa realized.  _ But he doesn’t know that part of me has waited for this moment with him before I knew its meaning. _

The eyes of men and what could be communicated through them, was known to her. Lust, desire, frustration, all these emotions, and more, had been hurled in her direction hundreds of times before. However now, as a sunrise of deep orange and vermilion illuminated the bedroom through the tiny cracks in the shudders, Sansa could say she’d never had a man look at her the way Sandor Clegane was now.

The deep passion in his eyes coupled with the even deep penetration of his manhood, made her breath hitch, forced her to gasp for air in a way she was unaccustomed to. Sansa’s body clenched around his reflexively, attempting to return to its normal size only to be impeded by his steel length. Her breaths were heavy as she seated him within her depths completely, his tip pressing insistently on her womb, their bodies now flush. 

His massive chest rose and fell quickly under the palms of her hands. It was then that she realized how wide apart her arms were, and how large his torso really was. She was so small compared to him, so delicate. It was a wonder she could even sheath a man like that to the hilt. Sansa found herself enthralled by the pleasurable flinches in his brow and his final exhale of breath when she sat upright on him. There was an ease to taking him between her legs that Sansa had not expected. 

_ It’s because I want him.  _ She reasoned, _ Since the day we met, our fates have been intertwined.  _

“Gods be good,” she whispered, leaning down to taste his lips again. 

The hand that was on her face, threaded into her hair, the other slid down her body to steady the small of her back. Her lover’s thrusts were playfully shallow, even tentative as they felt each other out. Sansa found great pleasure when he was buried to the limit within her, the head of his manhood rubbing against her womb. It thrilled her to the point of having her moan into his mouth and neck, something which he seemed to enjoy. 

In an attempt to take him even deeper, Sansa pushed up from his body abruptly. Her hands planted firmly on his chest, her fingers lacing into the wiry hair that covered it. Sandor’s hand kept her hips at the proper angle to receive him, increasing the pressure in her core all the more. Sansa threw her head back and groaned wantonly, she had no choice in the matter, no means to fight the feeling building inside her. She moved with his hips, finding that pushing against their movement much more enjoyable than going with them. 

Looking at his free hand, which had now moved to her breast, Sansa couldn’t believe how gentle it was. Sandor’s hands were large and muscled. They were first and foremost implements of violence, one could see it merely by glancing at them. His fingers held the hilt of his sword, at the end of which thousands had met their end. His fists had beaten and maimed the bodies of men, relentless in the pain they could dole out. 

Yet, on her skin, his hands were experimenting with their own tenderness. She must have been so foreign to them, so new. Her skin soft under his rough leathery fingertips, her passion the antithesis of the violence they knew well. She felt his fingers squeeze her bum--lightly guiding her over his large manhood. The other hand, she ran her fingers over, feeling the weather beaten skin of a man who had lived in the elements most of his life. A tent or a tree as his shelter from the weather. He’d never really had a home, even as he worked for the Lannisters. He had been their dog, a thing to be put out in the kennel not to enjoy the warmth of a normal life. 

Sansa could feel the tiny hairs on his hand, the edges and bumps of scars, the thickness of caluses that never went away.  _ I want to make a home for him, keep him safe here. _

The urge to lace her fingers within his own was great, and she gave into it. Pulling his hand from her breast and bending over him again, she found contentment on his face. _ It makes him more comely than he knows. _

This time it was he who met her lips, a man starved for love and tenderness.  _ He needs me, just as much as I need him. Even if our journeys have been so terribly different. _

Their coupling increased in pace, and Sansa could feel the stamina of the mighty warrior taking over. Sandor was vigorous in their love making, but not overwhelming. He brought his second hand to meet her own, interlacing their fingers there too. Her lover could have easily broken her hands with an idol squeeze, injured them without meaning to. But he did not. His fingers wrapped confidently but softly around her own. Their pressure measured, but firm. 

Sansa broke their kiss to moan loudly, the tip of his manhood seeming to press even deeper into her core. He had stretched her out over him, his arms reaching toward the headboard, her body flush with his. The hairs on his chest tickled her nipples, long since pebbled from her arousal. 

There was a shift in their rhythm, Sandor’s comings and goings suddenly became longer, more drawn out. He was impressive to take from hilt to tip. Sansa licked her lips because it took so delightfully long to go from one end of his manhood to the other. The loss of his hardness inside of her made her want him to fill her again all the more. She found herself gasping against this cheek and neck, mumbling incoherently as she did so. 

Her body longed to have him stretch it to the max, she knew that now. What had been the most intimidating thought of hers in the bathes, had become the thing she wanted most. She rested her temple against his scared cheek, grinding her hips against him with a fervor she had not known possible. They were doing nothing different than before, yet she felt a heightened sensitivity. The way his beard tickled her neck excited her. The feeling of his balls smacking against her bum only drove her to more ragged and uncontrollable movements. 

Sansa could no longer keep pace with her older, more experienced lover. Her breathing was becoming shallower and labored. She feared she was losing control, but had never imagined it could feel so good--that she could want it so badly. All at once her body stiffened, she felt her core clenching around him tightly then she burst. 

It was as if she was hearing herself in the third person, for no sound like that had ever escaped her lips. But it was her, it had to be. 

“Woah there,” he teased, releasing her fingers so as to keep their hips flush, “you’re not gonna push me out that easy, Little Bird.”

Sandor ensured she did not eject his steel manhood from her body. Her orgasim had been so strong, so deep that her core flinched tightly around him, “But you’ve got quite a power in there. Fuck you come so pretty,” he said it like a prayer, as if he were in a dream.

His mutterings were tender, even if Sansa did not know their true meanings. They both lay there breathing, his soft and low in her ear. Sandor gave her a couple of breaths to catch up, but then promptly rolled them over. The hasty removal of his manhood from her made her protest. It couldn’t be helped though, he was still favoring one leg quite markedly from the battle and didn’t want to hurt her. He used the great strength in his arms to position himself above her.

Palms on each side of her head, her legs spread far apart, they kissed nipping and playing with one another, the head of his length teasing her aching slit. It was nice here, a light heartedness to their play that reminded Sansa of happier times, of family times. She dared not shed a tear, but felt a pang of sorrow all the same. She had never properly mourned her losses, and now she felt slowly reborn from the ashes of her own defeat. 

In a bold move, Sansa slipped her hand between them, seizing his enormous manhood and holding it steady for her to sheath. Sandor chuckled into her neck, the bristly hairs on his face titillating her skin. She found no shame in her desire, if anything she’d never felt closer to anybody than she had Sandor Clegane in this moment. 

“Oh gods, yes…”she found herself saying, “...more. More Sandor.”

Draping one of her legs over his hip, he complied with her wishes. Sansa could not match him in his stamina so she allowed her body to fall back on the bed, languid to his labor. She wanted him to lay his claim, needed him to intertwine their destinies as tightly as he could. 

When he spoke, she could hear the excitement there, hear that the tone had changed, “When did you bleed last, girl?” 

“Maybe two weeks ago,” she muttered, not grasping the reason for such a question. 

_ Gods he’s a stallion,  _ she realized, looking up at the man mounting her. His dark hair hanging low, his muscles tensing and relaxing with each movement, his pace grueling. Sansa felt the need to release again. He fit her so well, he filled her so much, she was a slave to her baser instincts with Sandor. He urged her to be impulsive, to trust him enough to give him control. Sansa gripped his forearms, now moaning with every thrust. His balls thumping against her with authority as moans turned to pleasure screams with his increasingly ragged pace.

Then suddenly he withdrew and her eyes flashed open. His manhood in hand, with two quick movements she saw Sandor’s release. He seemed deliberate in his need to leave his seed not just on her belly, but over the mound of red hair between her legs. She watched his eyes light up, seeing his claim be laid. It was thick, white, and plentiful. His hand seemed to milk more and more from its depths as he allowed his trail to roll down her lower lips- the tip of his length just gracing her entrance. Teasing her, letting her know he would not plant his seed today--but he wanted to.

Exhaling deeply Sansa lay her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes a moment. There was so much to take in, so much to understand, and yet her mind was blank. She felt him lay down next to her as well, his labored breathing slowly coming back to normal. The sun had risen in the meantime, its light shining through holes in the shudders in an unmistakable yellow glow.

Sansa was not aware of how much time had passed before he got up from the bed, making his way to the water basin. Sansa eyed him from her spot on the bed,  _ He’s beautiful,  _ she smiled,  _ a testament to strength and power...and yet…he can be gentle. _

He motioned for her to join him. No longer caring for her nudity, Sansa rose, tiptoeing over the cold flagstones to him. He sat on a wooden chair near the water basin and poured some fresh water there.

“Go to the chamber pot,” he pointed. When her face protested he continued, “It's our first time together, you’ll need to clean. I’ll turn around if you like,” he said it with an amused grin.

Sansa had heard from the other women in the castle about the newlyweds disease, that women sometimes felt when they began sexual relations with a man. But she had assumed all would get it, she had no idea it might be preventable.

Shyly squatting over the pot, Sansa could see and feel his seed rolling down her belly and legs. The light was poor in the corner, but she knew it to be there. When she came back to him, she couldn’t help but watch with interest as he used a damp cloth to clean his manhood. Sandor was still a bit aroused, his ample length hanging thick in his hand. He took care of it much like he would have his own sword, making sure it was clean around its tip, washing it thoroughly. 

He looked up to see her staring at him and laughed, “Come closer.”

She did, confused as to what he was doing. Her lover seemed to be able to read her mind, “It’s good for both of us to clean afterwards,” he said, “taking the cloth and dipping it in the water. She looked down at his hands and watched how he cleaned her inner thighs, blood coming back on the cloth. 

She gasped, “It’s ok,” he soothed her, taking the cloth and rinsing it, squeezing the blood out. She could not have imagined she’d bled so much and never noticed. 

Then he cleaned his seed from her. The cold water on her tender lips made her hiss, he looked at her face as if to measure her level of pain. His second pass proved to be much better, but she could feel she was raw from their copulation, and knew it had to be expected.Sandor continued along her belly making sure there was nothing left. His lips planted a kiss right below her belly button and Sansa couldn’t help but put her fingers through his hair. It was not often that one looked down on the Hound as she was doing now and lived to tell about it. Sansa found she enjoyed the intimacy of this gesture.

Standing he whisked her up in his arms--a cry of surprise escaping her lips. “Let’s get some sleep,” he said. “I expect we won’t get around to winter preparations until late afternoon.”

“You want me to come with you?” Sansa asked, surprised. It would have been unusual for the conqueror of the castle to put her in such a prominent position. She was his prisoner after all, his ward.

“I don’t know shit about that, much less anything else in the North. I was hoping you’d do me the honor of being the Lady of Winterfell, my wife, and closest advisor,” there was no change in his voice, it was even and confident.

“So you’ll not have me as a concubine?” She asked, while he lay her on their bed. 

“You want me to dignify that with a response?” They smiled then, and Sansa felt lighter than she had since the beginning of the war. 

She had lost everything but now, as winter slowly crept upon them bringing with it a temporary peace, she could see that something would grow here. In the depths of their bedroom, in the halls of the castle, they would rebuild the North together. 

They would find their way, and she could continue the Stark tradition--and work for a long lasting peace.


	7. Epilogue: The Sorrow of New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get some smut and to finally see what happened to Robb!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to be finishing this story. It was more frustrating and difficult to write than I had expected. With that said, this chapter is...different than what you might expect. I'll put here a warning for Rape, even if it's in a much more playful "Sansa Fantasy" context. My personal fantasy has always been rough, dubious consent sex with Sandor and I'm exploring this idea in this chapter. Fingers crossed I hit the right notes.
> 
> Also, the last half is dark...darker than I thought it would be. So if you want to leave it at this chapter it's totally fine. If you care to read on, I hope you enjoy this final bit of the story!

#  Epilogue: The Sorrow of New Beginnings

The air was still chilled despite the start of the spring thaw, but that would not deter Sansa on her ride. It was a glorious early spring day, the crocuses had begun to sprout and even bits of grass were showing on the meadows. Winter was dark in the North, the sun always representing hope and new beginnings. 

_ The first sign of spring,  _ Sansa allowed its rays to dance on her face, knowing her freckles would soon announce themselves. She loved her home, she loved the North, and she loved the man riding next to her. 

They had grown to know each other well over the winter, using the time to make and solidify alliances with the Northern lords. Sansa was much more than a wife to Sandor Clegane, she was a strategic ally. They worked well together, using his power and her diplomacy to plot their course. Together Sandor and Sansa had worked to pacify her homeland, leaving the civil war in Westeros at their borders. An optimist at heart, Sansa had great hope that the war would not continue in their lands come spring. By nature her husband was more pessimistic, sure that the change in weather would bring the return of old foes.

Privately she and Sandor held a close love and affection. Sansa felt safe in his arms, protected. Their bed was rarely cold or quiet, something she had not expected. Over the winter months Sansa had learned the finer points of making love in their bed, or the corner of the stable, and even in the kitchen after the maids had gone to bed. 

The trauma of losing her family as she had, left a mark on Sansa. Winter was known to bring out the darkest in people, and the Lady of Winterfell was not immune. It was in these times, that she had truly fallen in love with the man many called, the Hound. His intimate knowledge of pain and sorrow had made him acutely aware of it in others. While he may have chosen to ignore that in most people, he was extremely attentive with her. He had been her rock, her protector, and most importantly her friend. 

Sansa smiled, for it was in the depths of winter that she had hatched the plan that had brought them here today. She was not sure Sandor would go through with her request, but was happy to see he had at least entertained her desire to leave the castle and enjoy a sunny afternoon away from the snooping eyes and ears of others. 

In the dead of winter Sansa had confessed a fantasy to her husband, something she had wanted to do with him, but had only then worked up the courage to ask. The shudders had creaked and banged against the window, the wind howled, and they were snuggled together under the furs merely watching the fire crackle and pop. 

“I want you to ravish me,” she said, her eyes still on the fire. “To hold me down as if I didn’t want to lie with you, and for you to force yourself upon me,” Sansa had no other words to explain it, nor did she have the words to justify this desire. She knew only that she admired his strength, and had often thought of what it would have been like in the baths had he not been so intent on conquering her whole. 

Her husband’s brow had furrowed then while he mulled her request over. Sansa knew it was not in his nature to do such a thing, though men often confused a lack of remorse for violence for a lack of remorse for all violence be it sexual or otherwise.

“I could bruise you, or worse,” he had said finally--the good humor gone from his voice. His response did not surprise her. His older brother had done terrible things before his untimely death, and had brought shame on his family name with such acts. It was a touchy subject for the most feared warrior in Westeros, even if he would not admit it openly.

She had sat up from the bed then, and looked at him a moment. “You wouldn’t be hurting me for real,” she explained. “Merely giving me the feeling of having no control. To physically over power me and have your way.” 

In a bold attempt to convince him this was a good plan, Sansa straddled him and began kissing his neck, “You’re just so big and strong. I love your body and how it moves and I watch you with a sword or in melee, and think of how thrilling it would be. I know you to be gentle with me, but I wouldn't mind if we tried it...just once.”

Her puppy dog eyes never made him cave into her desires, but she really had tried her best to persuade him. After a few beats he spoke, “So you’re saying that, had I taken you by force upon conquering Winterfell, you would have liked it?”

Sitting back she had crossed her arms in exasperation as if he understood nothing of this desire. Of course she would not have enjoyed it, it would have not been her will--unlike now. Sandor snorted at her childish actions, running a finger down her cheek. “I’ll think about it,” he had said, scooping her into his arms and and soothing her ravenous desire for sex.

Coming back to the present, Sansa’s eyes scanned the horizon. “There, “ she pointed to a large tree with a lake near it. There were woods to one side and a field on the other, it was the perfect spot to enjoy the afternoon and make love in the springtime. 

Sandor maneuvered Stranger to the spot and helped her dismount. Untying the furs from his horse, and the lunch she had packed from hers, he walked the two stallions to the edge of the forest to rest. 

Sansa busied herself with preparing their picnic.  _ He’ll never do it, _ she thought, placing the furs on the grassy floor. Sansa watched out of the corner of her eye as he put his sword down against the tree. They had discussed the possibility of raiders in the area, had even heard rumors that there might be some around. Sandor had not been concerned, but always kept his weapon close. He would not be taken off guard. 

Taking a step back from her work, Sansa admired the tiny love nest she had prepared for them. The dark furs formed a warm barrier to the cold floor, a few more piled up to use as blankets if the wind picked up. Sansa situated their picnic basket and wine at the edge.  _ Perfect,  _ she smiled.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone, girl. A pretty thing like you doesn’t go unnoticed.” Sandor’s voice was deep and gravely--all the things she loved.

_ He’s going to do it,  _ she could have squealed for joy.

There was a moment of excitement as Sansa did her best to get into her role. Her body tingled with exhilaration, the fear of knowing he was capable to do with her as he pleased setting in.

She turned, eyes wide, “I’ve lost my way, my Lord. Perhaps you could just…”

He bridged the gap between them quickly, grabbing her by her wrist with force. A finger sliding over the back of her hand. A show of affection through his harsh exterior, it made her shiver with arousal.

“You’ve got a pretty mouth, girl,” he had a devilish grin on his face. Had she not known him as she did, it would have been a terrifying expression, one that would have sent her to flee in vain from him. “I think it needs to be put to good use.”

There was no easy way to remove her wrist from his iron grip, pulling and turning did nothing to release it. If anything it only made his smirk darker the more she struggled. “No please...I have money...I have…”

His free hand flew to her chin so he could bring them nose to nose. “Get on your knees if you know what’s good for you, wench.”

Sansa did as she was told, kneeling before her mammoth husband. The dirty smile on his face grew while he slowly began to unbutton his trousers. It was a teasing sort of game they were playing, and Sansa licked her lips despite trying to stay in character. Pleasuring him orally was something she had grown to love, so it wasn’t a far leap to think of how much it would turn her on to force himself down her throat.

They had a connection, there were no two ways about it. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes looking into his, they could speak without a word passing their lips. There was a love so intimate between them, that no poet had words for it. All Sansa could do was stare back at him, the afternoon sun making her cheeks warm as she watched him undress.

Had she really been in character, Sansa would have waited to put him in her mouth, refuse, or put up a fight. Instead she eagerly sucked him, using both hands to pleasure his large manhood as she did so. Sandor had not been shy in teaching her what he liked, and Sansa found herself unable to deny him anything on this early spring day. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, his hand caressing her head. Sandor was also forgetting his role, but quickly laced his fingers in her hair and began thrusting into her mouth. There were few things more exhilarating than getting her hair pulled, the roots of her thick mane on fire from the force with which his fingers twisted themselves in it. She gripped his hips to steady herself, the few attempts to move her head not even registering against her husband’s strong grip. He controlled her head and her mouth, and was making every effort to fill her. 

Sansa found herself moaning with his cock in her mouth, feeling a second rush of wetness between her legs. Her eyes dampened as Sandor thrust all the way into the back of her throat. Relaxing her jaw so as to give him more depth, Sansa looked up.  _ He’s smitten, as am I with him,  _ his grey eyes dancing in delight. There was so much life in them, the promise of a future they would build together, that they gave her the strength to move on despite all that had happened to them.

Feeling her mouth grow slack Sandor pulled out, giving her a much needed reprieve. Sansa could detect his concern, even if there was no cause for it. Such a thing was normal given that she was so greedy to have him. Flashing him a smirk, she gave him a nod to continue their little game.

Sandor’s hand moved lazily over his huge erection, his fingertips rolling playfully over its tip. “You suck better than a two bit whore, girl. Now, let’s see how you fuck.” Her blood ran cold, if only for a moment. There was a sense of danger when he spoke to her that way, in a tone that he reserved only for subordinates and enemies. 

It was thrilling.

Sansa tried to crawl away, not surprised at all when he gripped her ankle and pulled her roughly back to him. The Hound fell on top of her, in a bid to keep her from wriggling out of his grasp. She fought her assailant, twisting and turning in his arms while he rolled her on her back. “No! Leave me alone,” she yelled loud enough for the horses to perk their ears up. 

Surprise filled Sandor’s face at the vigor with which she fought him. She posed no threat to him of course, but perhaps he had never considered how he might subdue such a feisty northern girl--and not hurt her. Keeping her arms busy with one hand, Sandor quickly corralled her legs with the other, moving to straddle her. His thighs were like boulders, pressing her legs so tightly together on either side that she could not move them. Next he went for her bodice, ripping it open and exposing her breasts to the cool air. 

Her stamina was no match for his, and Sansa found her body growing tired while she flailed her arms around, trying to playfully push him off of her. The only badge of honor she could take from the whole experience was that she seemed to be giving him a rough time, the frustration on his face only growing with every missed opportunity to catch her arms. 

“Let me go!” She screamed again, her elbow accidentally colliding with his lip. Blood flew back on her face. 

Shocked, Sansa immediately broke character, worry replacing her mock fear.  _ “ _ Are you okay?” 

Sandor threw her a sarcastic look, as he touched his split lip. It was a look that told her it was ridiculous to think she’d hurt him and that if she broke character one more time he was going to end it. Sansa was slowly finding that she loved his strictness, quivered at the very thought of him having his way with her. 

Smiling, Sansa went back to their struggle. It didn’t take him long to get her wrists under control and stretch her arms over her head. Sandor’s breath was warm on her exposed skin, his kisses leaving a heat trail from the top of her ribcage up to her neck. He was in complete control of her body, her tiny wriggles eliciting a condescending chuckle from his lips. Placing both wrists in one hand, he brought his other to the swell of her breast. He gave it a firm squeeze, positioning it so he could suck and play with her nipple.

A moan escaped her open mouth, the roughness of his beard only adding to the titillation his tongue was bringing her.  _ He’s enjoying this,  _ Sansa thought smiling up at the clear blue sky.

Kissing his way up her chest, over her throat, and up to her ear lobe, Sansa moaned again--forgetting she was supposed to fight his advances. “If you’re good to me, girl, let me take my fill as I please, then I’ll make it fun for you. If you fight me, I’ll take you back to my unit so the boys can have their fill too.”. 

Yet she chose to be defiant, “How can I be sure you tell the truth?”

“You don’t, Little Bird. You’re just gonna have to trust I'm true to my word,” his laugh gave her the impression she had no other choice. Sansa’s chest heaved, their eyes locked. 

Sandor kissed her then. It was a strong imposing kiss, one that promised complete domination, one that made her tremble with desire. He tasted like spices, his lips soft to the touch. She could revel in his lips if given the chance, kiss them for hours. Sansa’s adoration of her husband’s kissing was cut off abruptly as he flipped her on her stomach, pulling her hips so she came to her knees and lifted her skirts over her head. He paused and groaned when he saw she wore no underwear. She’d been soaking wet from the first time he called her girl, so her folds were already aching for him to be inside. They were swollen, and begging for his attention.

“Gods you have a pretty little cunt,” Sandor ran his fingers up and down her slit, spreading her cheeks to get a full view of everything. He pressed his thumb against the puckering of her ass, “But this one looks pretty eager too…”

Sansa groaned,  _ I need him everywhere _ . 

The thrill was not knowing which the Hound would choose. His touch made her quiver, pushing her backside even further toward him. Her teasing husband ran the head of his cock up and down her dripping folds, letting her feel the softness of his flesh against her without the satisfaction of penetration. Sandor’s knees were on the inside of her own, pressing her legs wider apart. As he brought the tip of his manhood to rest on her folds Sansa pushed back, sheathing him fully while not being quiet about the pleasure she felt.

Much to her delight, Sandor gripped her hips hard and began to fuck her roughly. The sound of their coupling must have been audible down the road for his hips were smacking into her bum with both speed and force. She was seeing colors as she braced herself on the floor, fisting the furs as tightly as possible.

“Gods you are a crazy little wildling, aren’t ya,” he said it with respect, having told her several times before how much he enjoyed her daringness in their bed.  _ That’s probably why he indulged my fantasy to begin with,  _ Sansa sighed, giving into him.

He leaned over her kissing her neck openly, and nibbling her ear. It was a struggle to look over her shoulder, but one well worth the effort. When their eyes met there was a tenderness there she knew so well. “I love you,” he whispered

“I love you too,” she smiled, noting the fact that he never broke his authoritative thrusts. 

Too involved in what they were doing, they never heard the horses approaching, a man’s voice abruptly stopping their intercourse, “Get your bloody hands off that farm girl you beast!”

The most startling thing was that Sansa recognized that voice, even if it was weaker and more strained than she was used to. Their heads both turning in uniscion to the man speaking, Sansa was dumbstruck by what she saw. There were perhaps twenty men on foot, no more than a couple of weapons between them. Their clothing was threadbare, clinging tentatively to their skeletal frames. A few emaciated horses carried men who had long since discarded their armor. Among those men, Sansa could make out a shell who had once been her brother. 

Before she could react, Sansa could feel her husband’s strong hands lift her to her feet. They left her only a moment so he could tuck himself back into his trousers. “Robb?” She didn’t want him to confirm his identity, hoping that the hungry, haggard man on a poorly horse was not her brother. He looked more white walker than man.

The stench that followed the men slowly rolled into the nostrils. It was of death and sorrow.  _ They’ve spent all winter wandering the countryside, trying to survive, trying to find their way home.  _ She wanted to hug him, run to her brother and tell him everything was going to be ok, but a strong arm pulled her protectively to a warm chest. 

Realizing her breast was still exposed, Sansa quickly righted her top, but it could only drape over her shoulder given Sandor had ripped it from her body. “Sansa? Get this beast who was raping my sister…” Robb ordered his starving raggaband of soldiers.

Feeling Sandor’s body move, Sansa knew there would be violence--and she wanted none of it.

“No!” She screamed, extending her arms in a protective gesture to Sandor. As weak as they were, Sansa was sure she could tackle a man if she had to.

Behind her, Sansa could hear men struggling. Sandor was easily handling three men at once, agility dodging their shaky attacks, pushing them to the ground with well practiced hands. They were flies to him, the way in which he flicked them from his body impressive. Moving to protect her, Sandor grasped her over her chest, her right shoulder in his armpit, his right hand crossing her body and coming to rest on her left shoulder. He pulled her to the side of him protectively.

_ He didn’t go for his sword. They are no threat to him.  _ The very idea put her at ease but still, the air was tense. 

“Now you listen to me, boy,” Sansa had never heard that tone of voice from her husband before. It was neither kind nor gentle. Instead it was cold, dark, foreboding. It promised death and she counted herself lucky to be counted amongst Sandor’s friends, and not his foes.

Sandor eyed the foot soldiers, “Make one move and I’ll rip all your bloody heads off.” 

The air was still, the field eerily silent. Sansa had wished to come here to experience the power and strength of her husband, playfully get to know him more. What she had not bargained for was to see how intimidating he was first hand.  _ They’re fearful of him, they cower at the very idea of fighting him.  _

Of all the men, Sansa’s eyes were fixed on her brother. His curly brown hair had mostly fallen out. There were layers upon layers of caked dirt on his skin. It broke her heart, it was a fate worse than death--to know sickness, hunger, and to wander aimlessly looking for release. Tears welled in her eyes, but she gripped Sandor’s forearm all the same.

The Hound turned to Robb, “Winterfell was taken in the fall, so it’s a little late for you to ride in the hero now. Your sister,” Sandor’s eyes glanced to her, “is the most precious thing to me.” 

When her brother did not believe him, Sandor interjected, “She came to my bed willingly, just like she suggested we have a rough shag out here in the field.” 

“Sansa is this true?” Her brother’s voice was full of disbelief and anguish at her treason, but it could not hide how sick he was. He coughed, drawing Sansa’s attention to his blue lips. There were myths of men having to survive the harsh winters of the North without proper shelter. They were horrible stories full of the darkest side of humanity. Cautionary tales reminding humans that they were only one step away from animals.

“Yes Robb, he speaks the truth,” Sansa answered, trying not to show the anguish inside of her. “We rule the North together, and there is peace. Come back with us. Your men are hungry, you need medicine and rest.” Her voice wavered, tears choking her up.

Sandor gripped her tightly, but said nothing. It was a small comfort given the circumstances, but very much appreciated.

When it did not appear that Robb understood them, Sandor spoke,“I’m not such a sick fuck to bring furs and some bloody wine to rape your sister under the spring sun. Now you’ve been out there a long time, lived rough, done things...things that kept you all alive.”

There was an ominous quality to Sandor’s voice that made Sansa suck in breath. She wasn’t sure what he was referring to, only that her husband had twitched when he spoke the last part. It was a sign of discomfort with the situation, she knew him well enough to notice it.

“I’ve got a good stallion over there,” Sandor pointed to the grazing horses, “We could put two or three of this sickest on his back, and be to Winterfell before sundown. You did well to keep your men alive.” Negotiation, reassurance, Sansa knew Sandor needed to convince Robb to return to the castle. 

Her brother took an inordinate amount of time to respond, to the point that Sansa wasn’t sure if he’d understood what Sandor had said. But then a reluctant nod, and a collective sigh of relief. She made a move to go to her brother’s horse, but Sandor kept her firmly in place.

“Wait till we’re in Winterfell,” he whispered in her ear, “He’s a sick man, Sansa. We don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Tears in her eyes, Sansa nodded in agreement. She began picking up their furs while Sandor went to get the horses. He helped three men atop her mount, they were pure skin and bones. Their skin grey, the color of death. He then walked Stranger to her, silently tying their things to the large black charger. 

Once he was ready, Sandor helped Sansa into the saddle coming to settle in behind her. His cloak enveloped her exposed shoulders, his chest warm against her back. Though he pointed out the direction to the castle, Sandor did not ride upfront. Instead he hung about the middle, keeping a watchful eye on the men and their leader. It was a grim march, heartbreaking to see what had become of them.

“What’s wrong with him,” Sansa finally whispered when she could not stand it anymore. 

Sandor moved nervously in the saddle before he spoke, “They’re sick, Sansa. Not just from frostbite and malnutrition. They’ve done unspeakable things.” 

“How can you be so sure?” She asked.

He put both reigns in one hand and motioned to some of the men walking, “You see how they twitch? How they stumble while walking? I’ve seen it before, and you only get it from eating human flesh. It drives men insane.”

Sansa gasped loudly, making Sandor shush her. 

“The maester needs to look them over, but Robb’s not fit to rule, nor will he ever be.” Sandor’s words reverberated in her ears, and Sansa felt such a deep despair. To have her brother back was something she had never thought would be possible, but in this state it was the cruelest of outcomes.

“Now Glover will have his answer,” Sandor snorted. Lord Glover was one of the few lords that held out hope for the “rightful heir” of the North to return. No confirmation of Robb falling in battle had created a dark cloud over their claim. 

“I’d give almost anything for him to be whole,” Sansa looked into Sandor’s stormy grey eyes, knowing he felt powerless against her sadness.

“At least we know,” Sandor rubbed her arm. “It’s a long road to happiness, but we have each other.”

She smiled through her sorrow. Of all men, her husband was not known to be an optimist, and yet here they were. Two against the world, their fates intertwined with a new beginning on the horizon. It was not the way she would have chosen, neither for herself nor for her family. But it had made Sansa a fighter, reluctant to give up. She would fight for Robb, she would fight for her homeland, and most importantly she would fight for her love.


End file.
